Something Else
by RosieMac
Summary: 23 year-old John Connor rides into a small town in Southern California, still waiting for his destiny to catch up with him. Nearly a year after the death of his mother Sarah from cancer, he faces the future alone. Or does he?
1. One

**SOMETHING** **ELSE**

_Disclaimer: I don't own these wonderful TSCC characters, just wish I did._

**Chapter One: What Have I Done To Deserve This?**

_**Southern California: Tuesday, November 14th 2006.**_

It was a small town, located on an old Highway. Like many small places, it had gotten a by-pass: a big, wide Interstate. But since that had opened, most folks just by-passed the town, in a hurry to get some place else. That suited him just fine.

He parked his old Triumph Bonneville on its side-stand, outside of the only diner visible on Main Street. Safely stowing the key in a pocket in his jeans, he removed one arm from his backpack's shoulder harness and strode inside without bothering to remove his Wayfarer sunglasses.

There appeared to be only two customers: one, a man not far removed from vagrancy; the other, seated well away, a middle-aged woman who regarded her fellow diner suspiciously. She turned to appraise the newcomer. Her eyes lit up momentarily, but then she sighed in resignation at the loss of her allure, and continued with her meal.

A waitress, perhaps the only one, approached the stranger. "Hi! Seat at the counter, or a booth?" she asked in what appeared to be a genuinely pleasant way.

"Booth," he replied.

"This way," she beckoned.

He caught himself admiring her ass as she showed him to a booth in the far corner, near the rear exit. _Hmm,_ he thought. _Usually gotta pick the seat with the best sight-lines myself. Sometimes you're lucky.._.

"Thanks," he said sitting down. "You still doing breakfast, or is it lunch now?"

"Oh, we ain't fussy! Whatever you want, if it's on there you can have it. Whatever..." She emphasized the last word with a look that suggested that something not on the menu was available too.

He grinned slightly, then cast a quick glance over the plastic-coated list. "Give me the Big Breakfast, with black coffee."

"How do you like your eggs?" the waitress inquired.

"Scrambled. Please," he added, remembering his manners. He was rewarded with a smile.

"Coffee'll be just a minute," she said, then twirled away and sashayed towards the counter, giving him the opportunity to admire her rear anew.

He continued to gaze upon her as she went about her duties with an economy of motion that seemed almost... artistic? He scratched his head in bemusement at his thoughts. "You've been too long in the sun, John," he chuckled.

She poured out a mug for him. "John? That's your name?"

"Er, yeah! Didn't realize I was talking aloud..."

"Then you have been too long in the sun," she asserted amiably.

"Guess so," he replied, shrugging it off.

"John _what?_"

"Huh? What?"

"Your name: John what-comes-next?" she clarified.

"Oh, right! Er, it's... just John," he said evasively.

"Okay, Just John, I'm–"

"Cameron," he interrupted. She looked puzzled, and something else: worried? "Your name tag," he said, pointing to the hand-written badge upon her chest.

"Oh! Thank you for explaining," she said with a smile. "I'll... um, go check on your order."

_Curious phrase,_ he thought. _Cute smile though!_

_**# # # # # # # #**_

As he got up to settle the check, John made sure to leave a decent tip. By now the only customer, he thought fit to compliment the cook on the pancakes as he handed over his money.

"Glad you liked them. I got him to put in a little extra something," Cameron remarked conspiratorially, whilst giving him his change.

"Oh?" He looked concerned, which she duly noted.

Holding his arm reassuringly, she replied, "Oh, nothing bad, just a hint of vanilla."

"Hmm, okay then." He noted that she still held on to him. She caught his pointed glance and let go with an embarrassed laugh.

"So, is that your motorcycle out there?" she asked.

"Yeah," John admitted.

"You should wear a helmet, riding those. Wouldn't want you to come to any harm, now would we?" Cameron stated.

John regarded her curiously. Who was this chick? _She sounds like Mom,_ he thought. _Who was herself a waitress, mostly. Is being a nag part of the job?_ He shook such thoughts from his head then, putting his shades back on, headed for the exit.

"I get off at two-thirty," Cameron called out.

He looked at his watch. _Forty-five minutes_. The place was dead, considering it was lunch-time. He turned to face her. "What about now?"

"Five minutes, 'kay?" she implored. He nodded twice, then went outside to wait on the Bonneville. He bided his time securing his backpack to the small rack on the bike's tail.

She reappeared in almost exactly five minutes, which surprised him: most women of his acquaintance said five, but took thirty. She was now wearing brown leather boots under blue boot-cut jeans, a dark blue tee-shirt topped by a black leather jacket, her hair pulled back into a pony-tail. She had a smallish canvas courier bag slung over one shoulder, from which she removed a set of aviator sunglasses. John could see his approving grin reflected there as she donned them.

"Where to?" he asked.

She climbed on the back behind him, then placed her arms around his middle. Her head was close to his.

"Just keep on going, I'll tell you when to stop," she said enigmatically.

He keyed the ignition, switched the fuel tap on, then thumped his leg hard down on the kick-start. Unusually, it started first time. _Sometimes you're lucky.._.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

"There," she said, pointing to a small patch of concrete road, left to the side when this particular bit of the highway was realigned. The pot-holed surface also had eruptions of weeds and grass here and there, showing that it was used irregularly. Carefully threading his way through these obstacles, John pulled to a halt and killed the motor.

Cameron the waitress climbed elegantly off the back seat, allowing him to set the bike on its side-stand. He followed her with his eyes as she strolled to the edge, where a section of guardrail sought to prevent vehicles going over the precipice. She turned back to him and smiled, the sun glinting off her sunglasses as she moved her head.

"So, what is it?" he asked warily.

"A view. I know it's just hills, desert and farms, but it's beautiful, don't you think?"

He moved up alongside her, and gazed out over the vast expanse in front. A mile or so behind them lay the Interstate, its constant drone barely reaching his ears.

"Yeah, guess so," he reluctantly admitted.

Usually, he saw farms as potential employment, hills and deserts as somewhere to hide. There didn't seem much room for beauty in his life. If there ever was, it was short-lived – not literally, of course: it was just that he moved on so much, before he could form attachments, before he became a danger to anyone. He followed his mother's advice, but as he regarded his attractive, interesting companion, he wondered:_ Why? W__hy keep running?_ He had no record, was not wanted for anything, unlike his mother Sarah Connor, who had died hand-cuffed to her hospital bed, a fact that haunted him still.

"John? You okay?"

"What?" he said.

"You, um, seemed to zone out there. Like you were somewhere else," Cameron said, looking concerned.

"Yeah, sorry," he said, then decided to change the subject away from himself. "So, what's a waitress in a hick town doing admiring landscapes then?"

"None taken," she replied icily. The warmth vanished from her face too.

John Connor realized he'd put his foot in it. And not for the first time, either. _Oh well, looks like this birthday is gonna be like the last – spent alone._ "Sorry. Again," he said. Another apology, two in a row. _Some savior I am,_ he thought bitterly. "I'll, um, take you back, 'kay?"

"Fine," she replied. The coldness in her voice emphasized the lack of heat out there in the open on a November day, albeit in Southern California. He zipped up his own leather jacket, but still shivered slightly.

As they headed back into town, he noticed the warmth of the woman at his back, more so than on the way out. Her arms around his chest seemed reassuring, comforting even, as the wind tore through his hair, and pushed against his chest, seemingly trying to pull him from his seat for daring to disturb its progress across the earth.

With subtle gestures she guided him to a small side road, about a quarter-mile away from the diner on Main Street. They were parked outside a vacant shop, which appeared to John to be a disused liquor store.

She caught his puzzled expression. "I live above it, second floor."

He glanced up for the first time. _Damn! Should have taken in the full picture right at the start. _"Not such a nice view from here," he said.

"No," she agreed. "That's why I like it out of town. You never know when you won't be able to enjoy it again."

_Funny,_ thought John. _Didn't take her for one of those doom and gloom types._ He'd figured her for a good-time-girl. Appearances could be deceiving, he knew that. But he had other more pressing matters on his mind. "Can I, er... Can I use your bathroom? All that coffee, the cold wind..." He let her imagination fill in the blanks.

After what seemed to John to be an age, she finished studying his efforts to control his bladder, and simply nodded her assent.

Relieved mentally if not physically, John scurried after her. As she turned a key in the lock to open the door to the apartments, she looked back at the Triumph. "Shouldn't you get your backpack? It's not the best of neighborhoods."

"Oh, right. Yeah." He turned back and struggled with the clasps that had seemed so easy to do up just a few hours before. As the last one released itself he caught a slight smirk on her face. "Done it," he said, then hastened to the rapidly-closing door, catching it just before it slammed shut.

He bounded up the stairs, surprised by her speed. As he entered her apartment, she pointed the way for him distractedly. He mumbled his thanks, then went about relieving his bladder. Afterward, seeking to atone for his dumb behavior, he set the seat back down, and washed his hands – dried them too. Looking in the mirror over the basin, he didn't see the cool, confident John Connor who had mooched into the diner earlier that day, sweeping the waitress off her feet. Instead, he saw the lonely, scared boy who had been the target of terminators from the future, not once but twice.

The second one had attacked him at school in New Mexico, back in 1999. Somehow he'd escaped, when by some dumb luck an old truck, probably driven by a panicking student, had just run into the machine. He didn't need a second invitation to run off as his mother taught him. He'd found her at the school gates, that sixth sense of hers alerting her to the threat. Once more they'd hit the highway, but it was his last day in formal school. The machine never caught up with them, for they kept themselves under the radar as long as possible, moving from state to state. They had been told that terminators never gave up, so when the authorities finally caught up with his mother the previous year, as she succumbed to the cancer that had been eating away at her, he fully expected the metal assassin to reappear. That day in December when his mother passed, he was willing to embrace whatever Skynet threw at him. But it never came. He'd spent seven years looking over his shoulder, for the cold hand of his destiny to reach out for him, all the while dreading the coming of Judgment Day. However, it too never came. It didn't stop him running though.

He sighed deeply. Introspection was not his thing. "Snap out of it, Johnny-boy!" he told his reflection. "Turn this around and there's a warm bed for the night, with free breakfast thrown in." His reflection grinned back at him.

There was a knock on the door. "You okay in there?" the waitress called to him, sounding concerned.

He opened the door, to find her standing there, her hands on her hips, head tilted to one side.

"Yeah, I'm okay. Sorry."

"You make a habit of 'pologizing?" she asked. He was about to say sorry again, when he caught himself; thinking back, he detected a note of humor in her question.

"Not usually, no," John admitted.

"Guess I should be honored then," Cameron said. The warmth had definitely returned to her voice, and her demeanor. "You wanna just hang out, take the weight off your feet?" she offered.

Pleasantly surprised by this development, John agreed enthusiastically.

Happily slouching in an old armchair, he surveyed the small apartment's one main room, a kitchenette/living-room. It was sparsely furnished, _Probably by the landlord,_ he thought, as he sought clues to Cameron's personality in the ornaments.

"None of it's mine, not even the TV," she clarified for him, as if reading his mind. "I just moved here at the weekend, started work yesterday. All I've got are some clothes and my truck."

"Truck?" John couldn't recall seeing one parked in this street, but maybe his memory was failing? No, the outside was deserted when they rode in on the bike.

"Yeah, it's in back of the diner."

"Oh, right. You wanna go pick it up? I'll drop you off, get outta your way..."

"No, it's fine as it is. No-one's gonna steal that ol' heap. We can get it later."

"Later? Sounds good," John replied, using his most sincere smile.

Cameron responded with hers. "So, what are you doing in a hick town like this, Just John?"

He smiled at the playfulness in her voice. "Oh, looking for work, short-term, nothing fancy."

"You move around a lot?" she asked.

"Yeah," he admitted. "It's the times though: you gotta go where the work is, right?"

"Yeah," Cameron agreed.

The conversation seemed to be going nowhere, but John figured there was one last card he could deal. "Listen, about before: I was rude. Maybe I can make it up to you, buy you dinner?"

"Dinner?"

"Yeah!" he chuckled. "Dinner – you do eat don't you?"

"Of course, doesn't everybody?" She sounded offended.

"Well, girls these days like to watch their figures; eat like, a lettuce leaf or something," John explained.

"I guess I'm lucky then," Cameron replied. "I can eat what I want, don't put nothing on, not a pound."

"Yeah, lucky," John agreed. "Fact is, it's my birthday, didn't want to spend it alone..."

"Oh, happy birthday! How old?" she asked brightly.

"Twenty-three."

"Sounds about right," she responded, her answer puzzling him for a second before he dismissed it as a distraction from his goal.

"Is it rude to ask how old you are?" he inquired.

"No, it's not rude – that comes when women are like, really old. Let's say I'm a bit younger than you, and leave it at that."

John smirked. "Chicks like to be mysterious about their age, no matter how old, right? Okay, keep your secrets. We all have them..."

"Some more than others," she said archly. He did not fail to notice this, and something began to tingle somewhere inside his brain.

He was stirred from his musings by a noise, seemingly from behind the only closed door in the apartment. On reflection, it sounded like a thud. "What was that?" he said.

"A mouse?" offered Cameron.

"Hell of a big mouse! More like a moose; I've yet to see one this far south though." John got up to investigate, pushing the door open carefully. Lying on the floor, all trussed-up like a Thanksgiving turkey, was a blond woman of about thirty, her mouth gagged, her blue eyes bulging with fear. Without hesitation, John quickly moved to her side, removing the duct-tape gag with a swift tug, causing the woman to cry out in pain. "Sorry," John said soothingly. "Take it easy, not here to hurt you! Who did this to you?"

"That freaking mad bitch!" the woman croaked.

John turned to follow her gaze. The waitress stood in the doorway, looking unnaturally calm.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**NEXT: Chapter Two** – Don't It Make My Brown Eyes Blue?_

_In which more is revealed about the mysterious waitress, Cameron._


	2. Two

**Chapter Two: Don't It Make My Brown Eyes Blue?**

_**Southern California: Tuesday, November 14th 2006.**_

John untied the woman's bindings and helped her back on to the bed from which she had thrown herself. He turned back to the doorway. "Wanna get her a glass of water? She's likely dehydrated."

Cameron shrugged and moved away. Presently he heard the sound of water flowing from a faucet into a glass.

"What happened here?" he asked, keeping an easy tone in his voice.

"She followed me from work – the Gold Star Diner on Main – asked me for some directions, then hit me I guess. Woke up all hog-tied..." She trailed off as the drink appeared before her. Sensing her reluctance to drink it, John took a sip himself, then handed the glass to the woman. With a grateful smile she gulped down the vital liquid.

"Easy there," John said. "Take your time."

"That was not wise," Cameron said. "I might have drugged the water."

"But you _didn't,_" John responded.

"No. It was still a risk though."

"Why don't we let me be the judge of what's a risk, huh?"

Cameron raised one eyebrow just the tiniest amount, then shrugged.

"I like taking risks: it makes life more... _interesting,_" John explained, then wondered why he was bothering to explain himself to the pretty psychopath.

"You've become careless, reckless even," she replied.

"What?" Alarm bells suddenly started to go off in John's head. Or more accurately, shouted orders to get the hell out of there, in the unmistakeable voice of one Sarah Connor.

He leaped up and ran past the waitress/kidnapper, wondering why his own brand of spider-sense hadn't kicked in sooner. As he reached down to snatch his backpack off the floor, he was grabbed from behind by the collar and flung over to the couch, from which he slid onto the floor. He turned to see the usurper standing over him, her hands on her hips, looking plenty pissed off.

_Okay, she's stronger than she looks; that's not good,_ he thought, _but maybe I can take her legs out from under her: just get a little closer, get a __little__ leverage, and_...

The woman was standing over him, looking straight at him. Abruptly her brown eyes flashed with blue light. John thought better of trying to upend what he now knew to be a terminator.

"Ohmigod-omigod-omigod," he muttered, as he jumped up hoping to dodge past her, but she grabbed him just as easily again.

"You've changed," he said, looking down on her.

The terminator looked puzzled. "Since when? You didn't remember me this morning," she replied.

"You were like seven feet tall, called yourself 'Crombie'... or something like that."

"Cromartie?"

"Yeah, that's it! You tried to kill me years back, in school. Got some cute chick next to me instead. Damn, I remember now! She asked me my name, then the crap hit the fan..."

"That was me," the terminator said.

"Oh, so you admit it _now?_"

"I admit that I was the 'cute chick,'" she replied.

"_No_. You were the big hunk of junk trying to kill me. I'd remember if it was small and er, _female_."

"That wasn't me!" She looked at him as if he was a moron. "You've got a lot to learn about us. Do you think we can just change size and gender?"

"Well, duh! Like _yeah_, as a matter of fact. 'Cause I seen it done: the first one of you to come after me, he... _it_, could melt and reform, do what it wanted, basically."

"The LMT-1000? There were rumors one had been sent back, but you never told me everything about that time, though I do know about a T-1001 that went rogue from Skynet. Hmm, so you kept at least one secret from me. _Interesting_..."

"Yeah, well, you know how it is," John said, not knowing at all what the terminator meant, "gotta keep some things to yourself, right? So, I'll er, be going now, 'kay?"

"I haven't finished with you yet."

John swallowed. "Okay, so... What do ya wanna talk about next?" He was met with a blank stare. Wondering why he was still alive, but grateful for it, John continued trying to engage this bizarre terminator in conversation, in the hope of generating a way out of the situation. "So, er, why don't you educate me? I've got plenty of time..."

"Later," the cyborg said.

"_Later?_" John echoed.

"Yes, _later_," she said irritatedly.

"So you're not gonna kill me then?" he said happily.

"Not right now, no. I was sent to protect you."

"Oh right," John said, as nonchalantly as he could. He glanced at her hand, which still firmly held his collar. "Doin' a good job."

The cyborg looked temporarily flustered, then released her grip. "Right," she said, then added: "We'd better leave."

"_Go-oo-od_ idea. Get your stuff, I'll meet you outside."

"I'll just dispose of the woman."

"_Dispose?_"

"Terminate."

"No you won't. You don't kill her, or anyone else," John Connor ordered.

The terminator frowned momentarily, then just shrugged. She didn't move, so John gave her a pointed look.

"Okay," she said and moved to grab a duffel bag, which she proceeded to stuff with her belongings.

John opened his mouth as if to speak, but then thought better of it. There was something odd about this terminator. Really odd. Out of her sight he grabbed his backpack again and made for the front door, then hurtled down the stairs three at a time, slinging his arms into the harness as he ran. As he reached the door, he grabbed it with one hand and pulled it open; with the other he withdrew the bike's ignition key from his jeans. Wasting no time, he jumped straight on and his oft-practiced routine concluded with a mighty thump downwards on the kick-start lever. The bike's engine turned over, but refused to start.

_Freaking great!_ he thought, then nearly jumped when the duffel bag landed right in front of his bike, closely followed by the female cyborg, the height of the drop confirming for him that she was indeed metal. He gave another hefty shove on the kick-start, but his timing was off and the arch of his foot bore the brunt of the lever's upward return action. The steel shank in his safety boot took some of the sting out of it, but he still hopped off the bike, wincing with the pain.

"Do you want me to do it?" the cyborg offered.

"No thank you," he replied, testily. "You'll just bust it clean off."

"I'm not lacking in fine control," she said through narrowed eyes.

"Oh?" he said, looking up at the open window from which she'd jumped.

"She's still alive, if that's what you're wondering."

"Really?"

"Yes, _really_."

Just then the woman put her head out of the window. John called up to her. "Don't worry, I'll handle this," he said, then grabbed the terminator in an arm lock, as if he was arresting her. Cameron looked at him, slightly bemused, but allowed him to proceed. The woman gave John a thumbs-up sign and smile, then withdrew back into her apartment.

John released his hold on the cyborg and climbed back on his Bonneville. This time it fired up obediently. He looked at Cameron. "Get on, if you're coming with me," he said, putting on his sunglasses.

She picked up her duffel bag and placed the strap over her shoulder, then awkwardly positioned herself behind the future savior of mankind. His backpack made it difficult for her to hold onto his waist as before, so she found a handhold on the rear carrier. John lurched forward quite deliberately, doing his best to unsettle the creature who now seemed not quite so warm and inviting as just a few hours earlier.

Within a few minutes they were alongside an old Ford F-150 parked at the rear of the Gold Star Diner. Its color was what might be designated 'Mocha' by marketing gurus in an attempt to sell a modern iteration to wannabe urban cowboys, but to John it was plain and simple crap brown. It had a heavy-duty locker box at the base of the rear window in the bed, with chunky-looking padlocks to protect it from casual thieves. John assumed it carried some serious weaponry, though with what little he knew of the new terminatrix, it could just as easily be full of clothes. As she placed her bag in the space behind the seats he saw his opportunity to escape.

He withdrew his knife from its scabbard and plunged it as hard as he could into the sidewall of the rear tire. Without waiting to remove it, he twisted the throttle and guided the Triumph away from the grasp of the female terminator. As he reached Main Street, he lowered himself over the tank so as to reduce drag and maximize his speed. After an hour of fast riding, he had still not seen even a glimpse of the old Ford truck, so felt it safe to pull in and top up the gas tank. He'd made sure to take a route with many forks and branches in the road, and tried not to follow any pattern, so he was confident that he could halt for the night in the next town. It was one he had never visited, which he hoped would add an extra random element to the terminator's tracking equation.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

Ninety minutes further down the road found him nursing a cold beer seated at the end of the counter in the Lucky Seven Bar, a simple drinking establishment for people with simple tastes. It had a jukebox and a pool table, an adequate number of seats, and served ice cold beers and a selection of tequilas and whiskeys. It didn't do wine or cocktails, though they would crack open a Pepsi if a 'lady' didn't like the choice of alcohol they offered.

The dozen or so heads making up the staff and clientele of the Lucky Seven that night paused in their various activities and swiveled towards the door whenever it opened, ready to check out any new customer. When it next happened, John was on his second beer, but he was no less keen to monitor the progress of the new arrival than his fellow drinkers, though he was far more covert.

As she strutted into the bar with her hands thrust into her pockets, the better to show off her ass, the click-clack of her cowboy boots on the bare wooden floors had a mesmerizing effect, adding a cadence to the rhythm of her swaying hips. Instead of heading to the counter, she aimed straight for the jukebox. She rested her palms on both edges of it, her features now concealed completely beneath the brim of her stetson hat. After less than a minute perusing the selections on offer, she withdrew a coin from her jeans and placed it in the slot, then pressed a couple of buttons on the colorful machine. She didn't move until the first bars of the song _'These Boots Are Made for Walking'_ were heard from the speakers positioned throughout the bar.

She pushed her hands halfway into her pockets and resumed her sexy sauntering, her stride pattern matching the beat of the song perfectly. She'd spotted the man sitting on a stool at the end of the bar and, to the dismay of half the clientele, parked her pert butt on the seat alongside his.

"Howdy stranger," she said. "This seat taken?"

He didn't look up from gazing into the bottom of his beer glass. "Do I got a choice?"

When she failed to reply, he turned slowly to face her, then stretched his hand over and pushed up the brim of her stetson slightly, all the better to see her shining brown eyes.

"You guys never give up, do you?" he sighed. "She was right about that, at least."

"Who was?"

"My mom."

"Oh. What did she say?"

"They have no pity, no remorse. And that they will never stop, ever. Until you are dead."

"Oh. Well that is true in general for my kind, but not of me. I do not wish to see you dead; quite the contrary, John: I am here to protect you."

"And you can't do that without being glued to my shadow?"

She contemplated his words briefly. "No, I can't."

"So I have no choice in the matter? I'm stuck with you?"

Again she pondered. "No, and yes, respectively."

"_Respectively?_"

"In that order."

"Oh right. There I was thinking you might be respecting my wishes to just go off and kill yourself."

"I can't kill myself."

John's eyebrows shot up. "You can't? Bummer. Well, I suppose you can't get depressed either. I on the other hand..."

"You are depressed? Can I help?"

"Yes: go away."

"I can't do that."

"Right. Seems like there's a lot you can't do. Like follow orders."

"I do."

"Really? Whose?"

"John Connor's."

John sighed again, over-emphasizing it to ram home his point. "Tell me which part of this conversation I've missed, where you don't know who I am?"

"I know who you are, John."

"Right. So, you follow John Connor's orders, but not mine, even though I am John Connor."

"Not yet you're not. You're John Baum now."

"Hmm," was all he said, waiting for her to enlighten him further.

Just then the bartender approached them. "A refill for you, and something for the lady?"

"No, I'm fine thanks, and she was just leaving, right?" John shot her a look.

Cameron glanced at the bartender and smiled at him. "_We're_ leaving," she corrected, then turned back to John. "Settle your tab, I'll wait for you out front," she said, sliding off her seat. She removed her hat, and leaned in close to his ear, touching his forearm gently. "And don't bother sneaking out the back: I've got your bike tied down in the bed of my truck," she whispered.

Cameron flashed him her brightest smile, then replacing her headgear, sashayed out of the bar, all eyes in the place again swiveling to follow the rhythm of her butt cheeks as they tangoed within the confines of her figure-hugging denims.

John threw a couple of bills on the counter and grinned at the jealous bartender. "It's a gift: I have this effect on women." The smile disappeared from his face as he followed the cyborg out.

"Don't flatter yourself," Cameron retorted, as she pointed him toward the cab of her truck. As good as her word, she had indeed hoisted the Bonneville into the bed of the Ford.

"You should have called me; I could have given you a hand lifting it," John said.

"Are you always such a smart-ass?"

"No, sometimes I'm a dumb-ass."

"You owe me for that tire, by the way," she said.

"Can't you claim it on expenses? I'm sure Skynet can afford it."

"I don't work for Skynet."

"Really? Got some ID?"

"It doesn't pass through, and Resistance tattoos wouldn't stick to my skin."

"So I just take your word for it that you're not gonna kill me?"

"If I was here to kill you, I would have done so by now. I wouldn't waste my time standing around making small talk."

"Sorry for wasting your time," John replied bitterly.

For the first time since entering the bar, having already made sure that her quarry could not evade her quite so simply as before, Cameron had a moment to pause and reassess John. She had upset him, it would seem. There was another awkward silence while they sized each other up from opposite sides of the truck. Eventually John decided to just go with whatever it was that she had planned. He slid inside; Cameron followed.

"I seriously hope you were careful with my bike," John said. "She's a classic, and unusually reliable for an old Brit bike..." He trailed off when he caught her looking pointedly at his right foot, which he had been favoring as he walked out of the bar. The pain of the kick back had dulled to a slight throb some time ago, but walking on it set off the spasms again. "Look, that was operator error, okay? I was in a hurry, I didn't time it right. It's not the bike's fault, it's mine."

Cameron shrugged, then looking ahead, started up the truck. "I notice you call your motorcycle '_she_.' You don't have a problem with all machines then? Humanizing them?"

"It's not just me; lots of people call their bikes, cars and boats too, '_she_,' '_her_,' whatever. It's a tradition, I guess. But me, I don't have a problem with machines, so long as they aren't trying to kill me."

"I'm not here to kill you, John," she reiterated, her voice taking on a softer, more feminine inflection.

John sighed. "So what _are_ you here for? Is there another terminator out there? What about the one from Red Valley?"

"Cromartie? He's gone. I took care of him back in 'Ninety-Nine. There may be others though."

"That's like, totally reassuring," he said sarcastically. Cameron kept quiet.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

Ten minutes later they were on a highway heading North, towards Los Angeles. John rested his head against the side window and sighed. _It's another one of those days_, he thought. "So much for a quiet couple of weeks in that sleepy burg. We'll need to find somewhere else, so I can eat and sleep, unless you expect me to crash back there?" he said, jerking a thumb towards the truck's bed.

"It's up to you, but we should put some extra distance between us and the woman you wouldn't let me kill."

"The woman!" John spluttered. "She was... is a waitress, she's got a life. She may be important after J-Day."

"She's not in my database," Cameron interrupted.

"Perhaps you don't know _everything_, ever thought that?"

Cameron reflected on this, then shrugged. "It's a possibility; but she is still a threat. She can identify you."

"No, she can identify you! Me, I'm the hero in all this, remember?"

"John Connor, savior of mankind."

"You got it, finally."

"She can still identify you. And if you care to assess our current situation, we are not getting medals from the mayor, but evading the law."

"Yeah, thanks to you! Now I could be a wanted criminal again. Damn, you're good at your job! And you said I was getting careless? _Jeez_..." John exhaled heavily.

"I said that I would kill her; there would be no loose ends. It's not too late to turn back–"

"Forget it! Just... forget it, 'kay?"

_**# # # # # # # #**_

Cameron eased her Ford to a halt in the parking lot of a low-rent, off-highway motel. She had a quick scout around the location before joining John in the reception.

"So, you guys married or what?" the lank-haired clerk inquired, casting a lecherous eye over Cameron.

"Marriage is an archaic and outdated symbol of the enslavement of women, signifying the transfer from paternal bondage to one of spousal servitude," she declared.

The clerk looked from Cameron's unblinking gaze to John, who was grinding his teeth behind a fixed smile.

"Guess you won't be requirin' the Honeymoon Suite then?"

John smirked to himself, as Cameron was once again momentarily given to pause. "No, we require that one," she said, pointing at a particular room on the site plan.

The clerk nodded. "It's available. Cash, charge or check?"

"Cash," Cameron said.

"Uh-huh, thought so," muttered the clerk.

With the formalities covered, he handed the room key to Cameron, while John continued to lean on the wall, apparently disinterested in the proceedings. As Cameron headed toward the door, the clerk had some advice for John. "Good luck with that one," he said out the corner of his mouth.

Cameron abruptly turned around, looking daggers at the seedy clerk. She grabbed John's hand and led him away.

_Poor guy,_ the clerk thought._ Not that I'd complain. Could do with a bit more up top though._..

_**# # # # # # # #**_

Once Cameron had ascertained that the security of the room was up to her standards, John settled down in a chair to relax.

"Any chance of some food?" he asked. "Long time since lunch."

"You want me to get something?"

"Don't say it like it's the worst thing you could do."

"Okay. _Would you like me to get you something to eat?_" she said in a sing-song voice.

John grimaced, then jumped up brandishing his bike keys. "What's your name, designation, whatever?"

"I go by 'Cameron Phillips.'"

"Okay, Phillips: you're fired. We're done here, and this time I mean it. Either you get the hell out of my life, or I'm leaving."

"I can't let you do that," she stated.

"There's only one way you can stop me," he replied.

"Oh? What's that?"

"Kill me."

They stared at each other for long minutes. Eventually Cameron shrugged, and stepped aside.

"Huh!" snarled John. He grabbed his backpack and strode past the cyborg. Just as he reached out for the door handle, she whacked him on the back of the head.

"Make that two ways," she said, picking him up carefully. She laid him down on the bed, then switched the lights out. She checked the view out of the window, then looked back at the recumbent figure on the bed. "You said it'd be difficult, but you never told me you'd be such a pain in the ass."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**NEXT: Chapter Three** - What Have You Done For Me Lately?_

_In which Cameron reveals some of her past in the future and the present. Yes, time travel is complicated._


	3. Three

**Chapter Three: What Have You Done For Me Lately?**

_**Western Arizona: Wednesday, November 15th 2006.**_

John Connor woke up the next morning, hungry, thirsty and with a throbbing head. It took a second or two for him to remember it wasn't from a drunken binge, but something else.

"Why the hell did you hit me?" He held his head, feeling a bump that had appeared overnight. "Ow!" The spot was more tender than he'd anticipated.

"Shhh! You'll just make things worse," advised Cameron Phillips.

"Worse!" exclaimed John. "How?"

"Shouting cannot be good for your obvious headache."

"So now you're a nurse?"

"If you want me to be, yes."

John chewed that over for a minute, then dismissed his thoughts: he didn't like where his imagination was taking him. _Must be brain damaged; or in need of coffee_, he decided. "How about some Advil?" Cameron held out her hand; it contained two tablets, which John took with a grateful smile. "Water?"

Cameron gestured to the small cabinet by the bed, upon which rested a half-full glass.

John swallowed the tablets with a healthy slug of water. It did nothing for his thirst though. He attempted to get up, but the meds hadn't kicked in yet, so he sat back down and waved the glass at Cameron. "More? _Please_," he said.

She soon returned from the bathroom with a refill. This time he sipped the water slowly, the better to enjoy its cool flavor.

"You didn't answer my question," he said eventually.

"I didn't think it needed answering. You know why I stopped you."

"You hit me."

"It was either that or kill you, as I recall."

A small grin escaped John's resolute control. "So, I ordered you back to protect me?"

"_Using any and all measures you deem suitable to ensure my survival beyond, and preparation for, Judgment Day,"_ she quoted, using a gravelly male voice.

"Is that my voice? I mean, Future-Me?" John asked.

"Yes," Cameron replied, reverting to her own voice.

"Hmm, okay, well you have permission to make sure I never take up smoking, or gargling acid, or whatever. Man, I sound _rough_..."

"Perhaps the poor atmosphere in the years after Judgment Day affected your vocal chords," Cameron offered. "Or your propensity to shout when you get angry."

The last comment caused the mouthful of water John had just taken to almost go down the wrong hole. Instead he coughed it out, all over his shirt. His coughing fit lasted several minutes, during which time Cameron studied him carefully, but did not intercede. Eventually it subsided and John's headache was by then being soothed thanks to the wonders of modern pharmaceuticals. He rose from the bed, more carefully this time, and made his way to the window. He noted that the cyborg had picked a room with good views of all approaches. Would he have picked that room? _Of course, _he told himself._ I hope. Maybe I'm rusty_.

"I'm hungry; let's get something to eat," John said, turning to Cameron, who didn't move. "You can come too, if you're thinking of hitting me again." This generated a smile from her, a genuine one, it seemed to him. "But you're paying," he added. The smile turned into a grin; he found it was matched by the one on his face.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

Cameron smiled at the waitress as she completed their order. John looked at the plate in front of the cyborg.

"You really gonna eat that?" he asked.

"Yes. I like strawberries and cream with my waffles," she replied.

John squinted at her for a second, then shrugged. "I didn't think you guys ate, let alone so much."

"My systems convert it into useable substances in a far more efficient way than yours. For instance, there is no–"

"Whoa there!" he interrupted. "Too much information. 'Specially while I'm eating. Okay?" He smiled briefly, but his eyes told Cameron that he was serious.

"Oh, right. Sorry," she said.

The rest of the meal passed in silence. At the end, John passed the check over to Cameron. The waitress had left it at his side, assuming that the man would settle. "We agreed you'd pay?" Cameron nodded. "Leave a good tip. Waiting table's hard work," he said. She acknowledged this with another nod, then got up to pay.

"I'll just visit the washroom," John announced.

Cameron trailed him to the door, where John paused. "I can manage this on my own. Unless you wanna hold–"

"No thank you." She gave him an icy glare as she brushed past. She quickly checked the restroom, satisfying herself that the bars on the small window would prevent another escape, then she exited without a word. John smirked at her retreating back, then got on with his business.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

John exited the diner with a cheery _'Have a nice day'_ from the waitress who had served them. Cameron was lingering nearby, obviously still not sure that he wouldn't make a run for it. With his motorcycle still firmly lashed into the bed of her Ford, and only the possibility of a passing bus to make an escape on, he sauntered over to her.

"No need to worry. No point in me getting on the Greyhound, you'd just follow it 'til I got off, right?" Cameron confirmed this with yet another nod. "So, where you taking me?"

"Los Angeles."

"Okay," he said, climbing in the truck. They had been going some miles when he broached a subject that had been needling him for some time. "What's your story?"

"I was sent back to the summer of 1999 to find you and your mother."

"And do what exactly?"

"Most importantly, to protect you."

"And Mom? What about her?"

"Her safety was of secondary importance, but I was given leeway to use my initiative as I saw fit. The older you, who sent me back, wanted me to work with your mother, to learn from her. Unfortunately, it was not to be."

"So what went wrong? How'd it take, what, seven years to find me? You can't be that good."

"I did find you that year. I would have been there earlier, but Future-You couldn't remember the name you were using or exactly where you were located. I had tracked you to Nebraska, then to Red Valley, New Mexico; however I did manage to enroll at Crest View High School in time to save you from Cromartie's bullets."

"Why'd you just fall down like you were really dead?"

"A tactical decision: play possum, to avert suspicion from me, thus giving me the element of surprise. While you exited through the window, I made my way to the parking lot more conventionally, amongst the other escaping students. There I rammed him with my truck."

"You again?" John sighed. "Not surprising really. I just thought it was random luck – some kid panicking, hits him while trying to get away from all the shooting."

"Which enabled you to escape, but unfortunately I also lost track of you."

"Yeah, I just ran; met up with my mom and we hit the road. We stayed like that 'til she was too sick to run any more. I did a deal with some FBI agent, Ellison I think his name was, to get Mom treatment. They dropped the charges against me, as I was a minor at the time of the Cyberdyne bombing, gave me the new Baum ID too."

"That was when I finally caught up with you, at the hospital. I put tracking devices on your car and then later, your motorcycle."

"Ah," John said. _Explains how she found me so easily_. "You didn't make contact?" he asked.

"No, it seemed inappropriate then. I just followed you discreetly, ensuring your safety when necessary."

"How often was 'necessary?'"

"Just the once from a terminator."

"Ah," he said again. "You weren't tempted to say 'hello,' ever?"

"One time," she admitted. On his signal, she clarified. "On your birthday last year. You were in a bar."

"Yeah," John said, remembering. "Mom told me to go out, enjoy myself. But how could I? She's dying, chained to that goddamn bed – how could I just ignore _that_, and laugh and fool around?"

"I could tell you were unhappy. You were rejecting the advances of attractive women, yet did not leave. You did not even get totally drunk, as many other men might. I decided that approaching you would not help you in any meaningful way. If I had revealed myself then, I would likely have provoked a worse reaction than the one achieved when I finally made my true nature apparent."

"So, you let me drown my sorrows, rather than come on to me, _then_ tell me you're a killer-robot from the future?"

Cameron frowned at his description of her, but kept her disapproval to herself. "Essentially, yes."

Another sigh escaped from John. "Well, gee thanks! It's nice to know you care so much about my feelings, Phillips."

"I do."

"Yeah, right!"

"What is so strange about that?"

"You're kidding me?"

"No."

"You're a machine! You don't care about anything, except maybe your mission – what you're programmed to do. Or is taking care of my feelings part of the mission, saving John Connor?"

"It could be, but only if I choose to make it so."

"So, you're not programmed to be so touchy-feely?"

"No, John."

John stared out of the window, focusing on anything however trivial or transitory that came within his field of vision. Anything to take his mind off the present. He'd always been forced to think of the future, and his part in it, but life had an annoying habit of making him live in the present. After more than an hour of silence, Cameron decided to continue the conversation, despite John's clear lack of enthusiasm for it.

"When I saw you then, I saw something in you that Future-You concealed from his men, but which he'd allowed me to see. I didn't know it at the time, I had to come back and see you to realize what it was. I understand now that I was privileged to be the only one to witness it," she said.

John turned his head slowly to study the cyborg, his curiosity piqued. Any talk of his future-self came with a rider: while it showed him how important he truly would become, it also placed upon him a greater burden, no matter how slight the increase, to become that man.

"Okay, I'll bite; what did you see?" he asked.

Cameron took her eyes off the road momentarily to glance at him. "Vulnerability."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

They'd just completed a stop for gas. It gave John a chance to stretch his legs and get a coffee. He made do with an oatmeal cookie to stave off any hunger pangs, but really he could go all day on the size of breakfast he'd consumed. Cameron could go an awful lot longer.

"You're different. I mean, really different," he said with a smile, as they got back on the road.

"Yes, I am," she said, echoing his smile.

"Why?" This drew no immediate response from Cameron. As John formed the theory that she may not actually know, he asked instead, "How?"

Cameron paused, contemplating how much to tell him. "I have superior infiltration capabilities to other models, derived from close observation of human subjects. In my time here I have had to assume a completely human profile. I have not had anyone suspect my true nature at all," she said proudly.

John caught the tone of her voice. In fact he noted that she hadn't changed much since revealing herself to be a cyborg: the pretense of being human continued. "Right. So why carry on with it now? I mean, I know what you are, no need to fake being human now..."

"Fake it? I'm not faking anything. You think after seven years here I wouldn't have learned anything, changed in any way? I told you, I'm superior to previous models," she replied testily.

"If you can call developing a temper 'superior,' yeah, great development there, Skynet: you created the perfect woman, complete with 'bitch' mode. Jeez, what is the world coming to?"

"An end, in four years, five months and six days time."

"_What?_"

"Judgment Day: April Twenty-First, 2011. At least, it was in the timeline I was sent back from. It may have changed since then."

"Oh, really? And what's the good news?"

"You have me," she replied with a smile.

"Shoot me now."

"I prefer strangulation: it's quieter, less wasteful of ammunition," she said more seriously.

John paused to think. "So, what _am_ I gonna do with you?"

"Do?"

"Yeah! We need to sort stuff out; like arrangements. I mean, if I need you, say, do I call you up, or you gonna be lurking in the bushes or what?"

"It would be best if I was with you at all times," she said, wondering how many more times she would have to make the point.

"Now see, that might get _com-pli-cated_," drawled John.

"Oh. How?"

"We-ell... _see_, you'd likely hamper my chances with the ladies."

"Not a problem."

"Really? How so?"

"You can tell them I'm your girlfriend."

"I think you're missing the point," John grouched.

"Judging by your attempts to seduce me, when I was throwing myself at you, your chances with the 'ladies' would appear to be very slim."

"Now see, I thought there was something odd about you all along," John protested.

"Really? You admitted I was a 'cute chick' in High School, and you were urging yourself to turn the situation around so as to have a warm bed for the night, with free breakfast thrown in."

John squirmed, cursing in his mind the super-hearing and perfect recall of the terminator. "I sent you back, right?" She nodded affirmatively. "So, exactly how close were we, in the future?"

"Very close."

"Hmm... Not so close that I sent you away."

"He sent me to you," she said emphatically.

"_Hmm_... How do I know for sure it was me, not Skynet?"

"Like I said, I'd have killed you by now," Cameron replied.

"Okay, I can see that," he acknowledged. "So, when were you gonna tell me? That you were a terminator?"

"Before things progressed too far."

"Too far?"

"Before you unzipped your pants. Or mine."

"Ha! And what makes you think I'd go that far?"

Cameron looked somewhat incredulous. "I just told you I heard what you said yesterday. Anyway, I've been following you for a year: you make a play for every attractive woman you meet – not always successfully, I might add."

"Yeah, right!"

Not sure which part of her statement he was decrying, or if it was all of it, she continued, "All I had to do was lick my lips and you were interested."

"It was my birthday, I'd been on the road a while..." he grumbled.

Cameron pulled over to the side and brought the Ford to a halt. She stared at the future general. John looked away, conceding defeat. "I need a real drink," he declared.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

The last part of the journey was covered in darkness. As they reached the outskirts of the sprawling city of Los Angeles, John agreed to spending another night in a motel only after Cameron promised to ensure his bike wasn't stolen. Following checking in, they obtained a takeout Chinese meal for one. While John munched away, he continued to probe his new companion for information.

"I was designed for a very specific task, John: the most important one of all to Skynet. I needed to be a perfect copy of a human, however I failed in my mission."

"Which was?" John asked.

"To kill you."

"Oh."

"Yes."

"So, er... How did you fail?"

"I could fool most people, but I couldn't fool you, John."

"You did here, I mean at the diner; even when I found the woman tied up, I just thought you were some whack-job."

"Future-You knows more than you, he has more experience. Don't feel slighted that you couldn't tell. After all, I have had seven more years to perfect my human persona."

"Oh, right. So, what the hell have you been doing since running down... What'd you call him? Cromartie?"

"Yes, Cromartie – it was the name he gave in class, the one he was using as his identity."

"Right. So, er... what happened to you? You just switch off or something?"

"In a way. When I realized that you had run off from the parking lot, I followed Cromartie to his safe house, where I engaged him in combat. Ultimately I was able to defeat him, but not without incurring significant damage to my skin and endoskeleton. I made what repairs I could, mined his chip for data and harvested his chassis for some essential spare parts."

"Essential spares?" John interrupted.

"My right shoulder joint was damaged. I have yet to replace it, but another severe blow would require me to do so. I took his, along with some other parts likely to face further stress in hand-to-hand combat."

"But what would happen if you were caught? I mean all that future-tech..." He trailed off when he realized that if she got caught, the authorities would have her, a complete terminator. It was so easy to forget what she was, even while talking about it, because she didn't have the wooden disposition that made previous cyborgs he'd encountered stand out. The expression on her face at that moment, for instance: it showed clearly what she thought of his question. "Okay, forget I said that – Dumb-John, right?"

Cameron smiled briefly, as if to a dimwitted child, then carried on with her revelations. "I destroyed his chip and what remained of him and his equipment. I attempted to track your progress from my own safe house, but was forced to go into standby mode in order to undertake necessary repairs to my software."

"How come?"

"The fight with Cromartie was difficult for me, due to his greater size and mass. Although I could effect damage to vital joints, I needed to electrocute him in order to render him off line and then remove his chip. It took several attempts, my first strike managing to disable us both temporarily. I suspect that the high voltage shock, combined with the number of blows he landed caused me to later malfunction. My files became corrupted."

"In what way? What happened?"

"I'm not exactly sure, as some of the data is still unrecoverable. It is standard procedure to attempt to bypass damaged circuits, so I set myself into a maintenance profile, conducting self-repair and/or bypass. In order to maximize this, I entered standby mode, which conserves resources by assigning them only to essential processes."

"Okay, so you put everything into fixing yourself, what happened when you woke up?"

"When I came out of standby, my organics had recovered and healed completely, but I had no memory of who or what I was. My documentation said that I was Cameron Phillips, a student at Crest View High, so I went there. As I had only been attending there a few days, the Principal thought that my absence and memory loss had been caused by me being traumatized by the shootings, so I was sent for counseling. It transpired that nobody noticed that I had been shot; they all thought it was you, and that the gunman escaped through the window. According to the FBI, he committed suicide, setting fire to his hideout in the process."

"Yeah, the Feds don't really like admitting that machines from the future have been loose on the streets of Main Street, USA. It would mean admitting that my mom was right, and that Judgment Day is not just a nightmare."

Cameron was not slow to see that John was brooding. Any mention of his mother was clearly painful. She was unsure whether to continue, but decided that he would probe if he wanted to know more. She suggested that he take a shower. Spending the day in the confines of her truck seemed to leave a physical toll on his body, something her years among humans had taught her to spot, and when required, emulate. While he attended to his sore and aching muscles, she did a quick scout of the neighborhood. When she returned he appeared to be more upbeat; he wanted her to continue her tale.

"I like a good bed-time story," he said, grinning.

Cameron wondered if she should mention something that his future-self had told her, but immediately dismissed it, as it would only cast his thoughts back to his mother. Instead, she continued the précis of her life in the early years of the twenty-first century. "Over time some memories came back to me as I put together the fragmented files, but they were of the girl I was built to replace in 2027, Allison Young. The counselor assured me that it was not unusual after such an event to suffer post-traumatic stress disorder, so I carried on at school living as Cameron, but thinking I might really be Allison."

"Didn't you notice something odd about yourself? Like not getting hungry or tired, not sleeping? You know, robot stuff."

Cameron shot him a look. "I require occasional sustenance for my organic covering. My sensors tell my chip when it is time. Because I didn't know what lay beneath my skin, I thought my body was telling me that I was hungry. When it got to nighttime, I went into a kind of standby mode, as if I was on full infiltration protocol, which in a way I was. I emulated a human perfectly, because I didn't know I wasn't one."

"Wow! So if a switch turns the wrong way in there," John said, pointing to her head, "there's nothing to tell you that you're a robot?"

"I prefer the term 'cybernetic organism,' but no, there isn't. I suppose if I was shot in the head, that might have given me a clue that something was different about me."

John chuckled at her joke. "Yeah, I'll bet! So, how did you work it all out?"

"The FBI agent in charge was the one that you mentioned: James Ellison. He had been at the school in the immediate aftermath of the shootings, but left before I returned. However he paid a follow-up visit a year later and interviewed me. He asked questions about John and Sarah Connor, which unlocked some more fragments of the puzzle. I began to realize that not only wasn't I a New Mexico co-ed, I wasn't the frightened girl from the terrible future either; in fact I was the machine who killed her."

"That must have been an interesting moment."

"Fortunately for Mister Ellison, I was home alone at the time. The rebuilding of my files was subsequently accomplished rapidly and so I once again became me."

"And you are?..."

"Cameron Phillips, bodyguard of John Connor."

"Cameron Phillips, high school drop-out?" John suggested flippantly.

She smiled in response. "Yes, I guess you could say that."

"So, what did you do after that?"

"I attempted to trace you based upon the information Future-You gave me and a likely pattern of movement. I was to some degree successful, but seemed to be always one or two steps behind you."

"How did you get by? I mean, what did you do for money?"

"I contemplated stealing easily-liquidated assets or robbing a bank but I was concerned about leaving a trail which could draw unwanted attention from the authorities."

"Or a terminator."

"Or a terminator," she acknowledged.

"So?"

"So I got short-term jobs: waitress, bartender, motel cleaner; anything with accommodation provided but no references required and no questions asked."

"Guess you must have found that odd. You never felt like killing anyone? Not even once?"

"All the time. You get really ripped-off doing those sorts of jobs: long hours, poor conditions, terrible wages."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Not at all. The only thing worse than a life of doing those jobs would be Judgment Day."

"You sympathize with humans then?"

"Sure. Even if I don't get tired, I still know when I'm being exploited."

"Did I exploit you? In the future?"

"No," she replied, smiling genuinely. "You freed me from Skynet."

John was unsure how to respond. She obviously owed her loyalty to his older self, another thing he'd have to live up to. He eventually drifted off to sleep, his thoughts filled with questions about what the future John Connor did behind closed doors with a bodyguard who looked like Cameron Phillips, even if he didn't 'exploit' her.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**Los Angeles: Thursday, November 16th 2006.**_

John wondered just how many times he had eaten breakfast in a diner. _Far too many to even guesstimate_, he decided. He couldn't recall when he had last cooked a meal, or woken up in the same place two weeks running. Sometimes he'd catch himself wishing that Judgment Day would hurry up and happen, just so he could settle down and get on with kicking Skynet's butt, or whatever it was that he was meant to do. Naturally, he'd then feel guilty for wishing away the lives of three billion or so fellow human beings.

"Hmm. So, what was it like, being human?" John asked Cameron as he sipped his coffee. That morning she'd declined to join him in eating; _"You're on a diet, right?" _he'd joked, but she still sat down opposite him.

"Interesting. I was running a full human emulation program unknowingly. I could not step back from it, so at times I experienced fear and unhappiness, among other emotions."

"It was real to you?"

"Yes. I knew no better, so if I felt happy, I really was happy, or so it seemed. But more often I felt displaced."

"And now?"

"Now I must focus on my mission. However, I do recall how I felt during that year. Some aspects of the human response have been absorbed into my core programming, so that I do not need to pause before reacting; it happens automatically."

"Well, that must be useful."

"Yes. There was something else I felt though, over that year."

"Oh yes?" John said, his interest enhanced.

"A sense of loss, as though something was missing, beyond being unsure of whether I was a modern-day schoolgirl or a prisoner from the future. As my files repaired themselves, there was a purpose to it: to find John Connor. You could say that I missed you."

"Well, you've found me now. How do I shape up, compared to Future-Me?"

"You're... different," Cameron said, with a smile.

"Ha-ha!" he laughed genuinely, perhaps for the first time in months.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

They spent the day chasing down leads: people whom John had obtained temporary work from in the past. He had intended to work in the border lands up until the holiday season, before his meeting with Cameron threw a spanner in the works of that particular plan. Now it seemed that her idea to bring him to L.A. was also going south, as he met rejection after rejection, faced non-returned phone calls, and even one _"Never heard of ya, buddy." _By the evening his mood had turned sour again, but at least he had someone to vent at.

"I'm not sure why you're so hostile to me; it's not like I tried to kill you," Cameron said, immediately regretting her choice of words.

John did a double-take. "That punch, day before yesterday, wasn't you trying to kill me?"

"No, of course not. I knew exactly where to strike to render you unconscious."

"Well, how freaking marvelous for you! You still hit me!"

"You were running away; or attempting to."

"Yeah? So what? Why shouldn't I? Why would I want you around?"

"Because Future-You wanted me to protect you."

"Yeah, well Future-Me can kiss Present-Me's ass, 'cause he clearly doesn't know jack about what I want."

"Perhaps he does. Or maybe he knows what you need. Perhaps your needs are more important than your wants."

"Perhaps I'd have gotten this far in life without his constant interference. Maybe I'd be a better man for just letting me have the life he had."

"Once Skynet started sending agents back, that became impossible. You know that."

"Don't wrap everything up with all that infallible robot crap. You've been here a long while, you say you've absorbed a lot in that time. Can't you see what it means for me to have you around?"

"When we first met at the diner, you seemed to like me. In the past you have not had the usual adverse reaction of humans to my kind, so I'm not sure why you are now so ambivalent."

"You're not, huh?"

They looked at each for some time, he glaring, she looking puzzled.

"Okay, it's like this," John eventually continued. "You represent all that's bad in my life: the future, what I've gotta do. And you also represent the past, all those deaths, including my parents, in my name; all the people who died so I could live. So you'll forgive me if I feel 'ambivalent' about someone, some_thing_ that reminds me of that."

He failed to declare that his initial interest in Cameron had not really diminished once he'd realized that she was a terminator. He felt awkward about it, and tried to reconcile himself with those feelings when they surfaced by trying to put her down. She had not replied, but continued to study him; John thought he had given her something to ponder on, so he pressed what he thought was his advantage.

"My mom made sure to destroy all parts of future technology before. It seemed to work, so you'll understand if I ask you to allow yourself to be dismantled and disposed of."

Cameron frowned. "It didn't work, as my presence should make clear. No matter what you did, Skynet was still created, just at a later date."

"So, you're saying it's not worth doing anything? I should just live it up for a few more years, then hide in a bunker 'til it's time to pop out and say to the world: _'Here's Johnny!'_"

"There's no need to be so defeatist. It is not worthy of you, of the man you will become."

"Don't presume to lecture me! Don't you dare!"

"I'm not lecturing you, I'm pointing out some salient facts. There's nobody else around to do it, so–"

"So you elected yourself head cheerleader? Thanks, but no thanks."

Cameron headed for the door, then paused and turned to look over her shoulder. "Clearly you are not in a mood to discuss things rationally. I will leave you to your thoughts for the night. But no matter what, I will be there for you."

"I really, truly, absolutely, hate that phrase," John spat out.

Cameron shrugged. "Good night. I'll see you in the morning." She made a show of checking the safety on her gun, then tucked it back in the waistband of her jeans, before exiting the motel room.

"Missing you already!" John called out in a syrupy tone. If there had been anything convenient to hand, he'd have thrown it at the door. He made do with vegetating in front of the tube, but eventually he drifted off into a fitful night's sleep.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**NEXT: Chapter Four**__ - Someone To Watch Over Me._

_In which John & Cameron settle down, get jobs, find an apartment and contemplate getting married. Sort of._


	4. Four

**Chapter Four: Someone To Watch Over Me.**

_**Los Angeles: Friday, November 17th 2006.**_

Not for the first time in his life, John Connor awoke in a bed unsure of exactly how he got there. As he rolled over to check his cell phone for the hour, he got the solution: Cameron Phillips, who was sitting on the floor in a yoga pose, her eyes closed.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded.

She opened her eyes and smiled despite his aggressive tone. "Meditating. It's supposed to be good for the soul."

John opened his mouth instinctively, but words failed him. Not because he had nothing to say, quite the opposite; he just didn't know where to begin.

"C'mon, hurry up!" she chivvied him along. "We've got to get started on apartment hunting. We can't live on a diet of fast-food and cheap motels forever."

John's mouth had somehow closed itself, but he continued to stare in disbelief at his guardian, who rose gracefully from the floor.

Sensing his mood, she turned all serious. "I realize that I bring conflict into your life, John. I'm truly sorry for that; I only want what's best for you. If you give me a chance, I can be a great asset to you."

John considered her words. Right now the easy option was to just go along with her. Or maybe it wasn't. Either way was fraught with problems. The reality was that she seemed to be creating some order in his life. If Judgment Day was coming soon, the sharpening of focus would be necessary. If not? _Well, take each day as it comes_, he thought.

"Okay," he said, getting up. He looked her square in the eye. "Just don't expect it to be easy."

"That's what Future-You told me," Cameron said.

"Yeah? Great minds think alike."

"And fools seldom differ."

"Right."

"I was just fooling with you."

"Right, well, don't go booking an agent just yet: a career as a stand-up might have to wait, but at least you've got the bodyguarding to fall back on."

"Does that mean you accept me?"

"I guess I have to accept that Future-Me knew what he was doing."

"I wasn't lying when I said that he sent me."

"Well, I have to take it on trust." He waved off her attempted protestation. "I know what you said, if you were here to kill me, you'd have done it by now. It's just that before when he sent people back, things were simpler. There's something strange about you. But as I say, I'll have to trust the judgment of Future-Me. If he trusted you to get the job done, so will I."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

John was just finishing off his breakfast in the nearby diner when Cameron came in, dressed in her usual dark tee-shirt, jeans and boots, ready for action. She showed him a folded-up newspaper with red rings drawn around some small ads.

"I've made appointments to view three apartments, all within the same area, but it's on the northern end of the city, so we ought to get going within the next twenty minutes."

"Right," John said. "You're pretty efficient when you try."

"Thank you."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

Thanks to their prompt departure, and Cameron's excellent navigation, they arrived thirty minutes early for their first appointment. John started to grumble about having to wait, but was forced into silence when Cameron pointed out that punctuality was essential in the military. She added that it was common to have long periods of waiting in wartime; it was a soldier's lot to find himself in that position, but it was a leader's job to keep his troops occupied and focused in that time.

When the door opened to the first apartment, the landlord smiled pleasantly at them. As he showed them around the small space, Cameron noted a number of problems. Before she could raise those issues however, the landlord had a question of his own.

"You two married?"

"No," said John. "Why?"

"Marrieds have kids. Don't want kids in my place."

"Oh, you've nothing to worry about there," said John, smiling politely.

"Non-marrieds have kids too. You planning on getting knocked up?" he asked Cameron, who tilted her head and stared at him intently.

"You ask a lot of personal questions," she said, taking a step closer. The man started to feel uneasy, but he was slightly reassured when John took Cameron by the elbow.

"I think we've seen enough. We'll be in touch," he said. He smiled, but now there was no warmth in it, or in his voice.

Back in the truck, John reappraised his new companion. "You do that well, the intimidation. He didn't know what you were, but he still started to sweat."

"I can do sweet and innocent too; whichever, guys find out the hard way that my jaw is made of hyper-alloy."

"You get into fights often?"

"Only when necessary; they don't last long."

"I'll bet," he chuckled. "Where to next?"

"Take a left up ahead, then third on the right."

At the next destination, the door was opened by a little old lady. John guessed her age to be nearly eighty. He had to talk clearly and loudly to be understood. The apartment that was for rent was adjoining hers. She took some time to find the keys, but eventually she opened the door for them to look around. There was a strong musty smell, and the furnishings looked old. John was no expert, but he estimated them to be fifty years old at least, though anything from before he was born seemed like ancient history to him.

"You kids married?" the old woman bellowed.

"No, should we be?" replied Cameron, enunciating clearly.

"I only let out to married folks. Don't approve of living in sin."

"When was the last time you let this apartment?" John inquired. He was reluctant to touch anything, lest he disturb the layers of dust coating everything.

"Nineteen-ninety-four. August, it was. Or March. Only stayed six months."

"Oh," said John.

"They got divorced," the prospective landlady added.

"We have to be going now," Cameron said. Leaving the old woman to her own devices, she took John's hand and led him back to the truck. When they got to where it was parked, she fumed, "What is it with humans and marriage?"

"You can let go of my hand any time," John said.

Cameron looked at him, then followed his eyes down to their still conjoined hands. "Oh, right. Sorry." She relaxed her grip.

John made a show of flexing his digits, as if to get the blood flowing again. He then drove to the final site on her list.

"Third time's the charm," John said, as he pulled up outside.

"What does that mean?" Cameron asked.

"Means we're gonna have to get married if this one doesn't pan out."

"Is that a joke?"

"I hope so. I really do..."

The apartment met with approval from both John and Cameron. The rent was affordable in the short-term, a by-product of its location. The owner was a man in a hurry, and he claimed to have more prospective tenants booked to view later in the afternoon and evening. Cameron whispered to John that her scans suggested that he was telling the truth about that, so if they wanted the place, they would have to secure the deal there and then.

"What's the deposit?" John asked.

The man mentioned a figure. "Double if you don't have references, and a month in advance too."

John looked at Cameron. "You got that much?" he muttered. She nodded affirmatively. "Okay, we'll take it. When can we get the keys?"

"I'll get a new set cut. If you bring the cash we can sign the lease noon tomorrow. That okay?"

"Fine," agreed John.

Just as they were leaving, the owner called them back. "One thing: you guys married, or what?"

Both John and Cameron glared at him.

"Hey, the look on your faces! Relax, it's a landlord joke. I'll see you tomorrow," he said, grinning to himself.

Back at the old Ford, John smirked at Cameron. "I thought steam was gonna be coming out of your ears when he made that wisecrack."

"My power source is far more advanced than a steam engine, but it would cause greater harm if it were to leak out," she said seriously.

"Lighten up Phillips, we got your safe house. Now we just gotta get a job to pay for it. And maybe we oughtta do something about this pile of crap; the law may be looking for it."

"It is not a pile of crap! However, we should do something about looking for work."

John checked the time. "Right now, we should do something about heading back. It's getting on for rush hour and Friday night traffic's a bitch, so I'll let you drive."

"Thank you, I think," she replied.

"My pleasure." John bowed his head slightly, then got in the passenger side.

"We might need to stop for food on the way, depending on how long it takes to get across the city," Cameron noted.

"Yeah well, if I drift off, stop somewhere interesting," John instructed.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

"I'll be glad to get away from this crap-hole, though I'm not sure that place is gonna be much better," John said, slouching in a chair.

Having completed her security sweep, Cameron exited the bathroom. "A little work will improve it significantly, but the important thing is to get settled, find a routine," she said.

"Yeah?"

"Yes. You've been on the move so long that you've become detached from ordinary life. Worse, you've been getting careless, taking foolish risks."

"And what, you worked this out from your position in the bushes, like some kind of stalker?"

"Yes, if you must put it like that. I was concerned that you would get yourself killed, sooner rather than later."

"Care to explain?"

Cameron revealed that what had made her step up her duty, from merely shadowing to actual contact with John, was when he'd nearly gotten himself killed a fortnight before; he'd just about avoided the wrath of a partner returning home early from a shift. John had escaped out the back window, but the woman's boyfriend fired a pistol after him. Cameron's back took the bullets, unbeknownst to either the shooter or his quarry.

John asked if she still had the scars, curious about her skin's healing ability. It was something she'd not made much mention of, but was new to him. She stood up and without hesitation, whipped off her black tee-shirt, revealing a bright red bra and a large amount of real-looking flesh.

"Whoa! Put it back on – I don't need to see you naked!" said John.

"I'm not naked: I'm still wearing a brassiere and jeans." She turned round to show him her scars.

He looked carefully. "Not much to see, just a few faint lines now. But don't go thinking you can take your clothes off like it doesn't matter."

"I'm not ashamed of my body."

"I'm not saying you are, or should be. It's just that modesty is something you should have picked up on by now."

"Don't you like my body?"

John swallowed and, after a pause that was too long for comfort, replied, "That's irrelevant. We need some ground rules here, and one of them is that you keep your clothes on while I'm around. If you're gonna be here, you have to act like my sister; sisters don't flaunt themselves."

"How do you know? You don't have a sister. Perhaps siblings are comfortable with each other's nakedness because they don't attribute anything sexual to it."

His eyes narrowed. "You saying you're _not_ coming on to me?"

"Would you like me to?"

"I'd _like_ you to put your shirt on. Then start acting like my sister."

Cameron shrugged. "Okay," she said, pulling her shirt back on.

As he watched her shake her hair out, John told himself that he'd handled the situation better this time. He'd not lost his temper, for a start. He still wondered about her motivation. The time she'd spent living amongst humans meant that she could certainly act convincingly like one, but how much was real and how much simple emulation? At the back of his mind was another question: was she like this with his future-self? She was vague about her time in the future, much more effusive about her time in the present.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**Saturday, November 18th 2006.**_

Having paid up the motel, they moved to their new apartment. After Cameron had removed her belongings from the relative safety of the box in the truck bed, they drove to a large grocery store to stock up on provisions. John was pleasantly surprised by the number of admiring glances he got from apparently single women pushing carts up and down the aisles. He was contemplating how satisfying late night grocery runs could be in the days and weeks ahead, when the cute blonde he was exchanging smiles with in the fresh fruit section suddenly grimaced and backed up, before abruptly turning her cart around and wheeling it away. Sighing, he looked to his left, where Cameron was standing, her face and body language exuding a very real threat.

"Lemon?" he asked, picking one off the shelf and offering it to her.

"What?" she replied.

"Hmm, guess you don't want it. Looks like you just sucked one though."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**Sunday, November 19th 2006.**_

John was just finishing off his breakfast when Cameron came out of her room, wearing a green button-through dress and brown shoes with a modest heel. She clutched her cell phone.

"I've secured an interview at a parcel-sorting depot not far from here. For both of us."

"On a Sunday?"

"These places operate round the clock."

"Right," John said, rising and placing his mug and plate in the sink. He chuckled at his new-found domesticity.

"You should wear this," she said, now holding up a blue oxford shirt and beige chinos.

"Why do we need to look like we're going to church?"

Cameron frowned ever so slightly. "People judge by appearances; we need to make a good impression," she said.

"Right..."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

At the interview, conducted jointly, the manager complimented them both. As he said to John, "It's nice to see you made an effort to look smart. So many think, because it's a manual job in a warehouse, they don't need to. But I like it: it shows you have a bit of self-pride."

On hearing those words, Cameron flashed John a 'told-you-so' smirk. _"Yeah, yeah,"_ he mouthed back.

They discussed the job details and then terms and conditions. It was explained that the extra labor was required for the build-up to the holiday season. The parcel firm was expecting a bigger upturn in business than usual due to the increased volume of internet sales. Double shifting through the next six weeks or so would see the new Connor-Phillips partnership with a handy financial base. The manager intimated that the best workers could be retained beyond the start of the new year, when they experienced a high turnover in staff.

Suitably impressed, he offered them a start the next day. John accepted without hesitation. He rightly assumed that Cameron concurred with his decision.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**Monday, November 20th 2006.**_

Cameron guided the truck through the late evening traffic onto some back streets. "This looks like gang territory," she said.

"Maybe. But they don't like to get in the way of some honest commerce," John replied.

Cameron glanced his way briefly. "You mean buying guns?"

"Probably, but not for us. We're gonna get your wheels a make-over. Pull over there, by that lo-rider." He pointed to a severely lowered '69 El Camino, tricked out with a luminous flame-effect paint job and super-shiny chrome wheels. "Hmm, nice ride."

Cameron pushed the gear selector into Park and turned the engine off. "It doesn't look very practical," she said.

"I guess you'd prefer a Hummer, eh?" John asked as he stepped out.

"Too ostentatious," she replied as she exited the truck, shaking her head. "And the gas mileage..." She finished with a shrug.

Once again John was stopped in his tracks by his newly-acquired bodyguard's oh-so human behavior.

"You coming in?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said clearing his mind. He walked past her and entered a small spray shop, where he greeted a short, wiry and balding Latino man like a long-lost friend. "Raul! How's it hangin' man?"

"Hey, Johnny-boy! Low, bro!"

Cameron observed them giving each other manly bear-hugs, complete with much back-slapping. She'd witnessed similar physical greetings in the bunkers back in the post-apocalyptic world of 2027 that she came from. Men, and women too, clearly felt a huge sense of relief when they returned from a successful mission on the surface world above. None of them attempted to share their joy with her, however. The closest she got was when General Connor disclosed the results of his operational debriefings. When things had gone well, he was in an upbeat mood, and enjoyed a small glass of Resistance-brewed moonshine. When a mission met with less success, he consumed somewhat more of the alcohol. He shouted and cursed for a while, then became quiet and withdrawn, and usually sent her outside his quarters into the corridors to patrol, preferring to be alone. She was beginning to see how he came to be that way; the younger John seemed to withdraw into himself when faced with a setback. She thought he blamed himself too much. She would step up her plans to ingratiate herself more with him, but it would require more testing of the boundaries. There would be arguments, but in the end it would be worth it, of that she was sure.

Cameron was brought out of her reverie by discovering that a skinny teenage boy was standing a few feet in front of her, blatantly staring at her chest.

He smirked at her. "Yo mama!" he said.

"Hey, my face is up here," she said, pointing to it.

"I like the view, though I prefer more meat on the rack," the boy grinned.

"What?" she asked, stepping closer to him. She fixed him with her fierce stare.

"I prefer my women with bigger boobs," he clarified, but his voice betrayed his reducing level of cockiness.

Cameron sneered at him. "Women? Your hand doesn't have breasts."

"Wha–?" The boy's face went bright red, his mouth bone dry.

"Shouldn't you be in school?" she asked, tilting her head but still staring.

"What's it to you, lady?" the boy stammered, still attempting some bravado.

"I'm a Unified School District Truancy Officer," Cameron declared.

The boy looked at her jeans-and-leather-jacket outfit, being careful not to linger anywhere too long this time. "You don't look like no officer," he said.

"I'm undercover. If I dressed for the office out here, I would stand out. So what school do you go to?"

"Campo de Cahuenga High."

"And why aren't you there?"

"I got signed off. I was being bullied," the boy admitted, hanging his head.

"By the cheer-leading squad?" Cameron cruelly asked.

At the other side of the garage, Raul nodded toward the entrance. "Who's the woman, Johnny?"

John glanced over too. "She's, er... She's my sister. Cameron."

"Oh? You didn't have no sister last time you were down this way."

"Yeah, well she's from my father's other family. Just met up with her. Who's the kid?"

"That? He's my nephew. Hey, Morris! Come over, say _hola_ to Johnny!" He waved the boy over. "So, what's the occasion? You just saying _hey_, or you looking to do some business?"

"Bit of both. Need the truck to have a dusting over."

The two men walked outside, leaving the teenager standing looking vacant, as they ignored him. Cameron gave him a quick smirk, then she too went outside. Raul was standing by her truck with a skeptical look. He rubbed his chin for good measure.

"I dunno, bro," he was saying. "You want black, it's gonna cost. Shows all the imperfections, needs a lot of rubbing down. State of this panel work..."

"Listen, I'm not gonna enter it in a show, I just want a new color, new license plates," John said, an edge creeping into his voice.

"Okay, chill. I'm just saying, white is easy, covers all kinds of problems. Cheaper," Raul said.

"I don't want white. It'll look like a farmer's truck."

"Okay, bad-ass black for big bad John. A grand."

"What? A thousand? You're kidding? Two-fifty, tops."

"You break my heart, Johnny. You come here, all like my friend, but you insult me."

"You been watching _'Good Fellas,'_ man? 'Cause you sound dumb," John said.

"Seven-fifty, last offer."

"Two-fifty and an Uzi," Cameron interrupted. "Take it or leave it."

Raul licked his lips. "Your chica has balls, Johnny-boy."

"She's not..." With a brief sigh of irritation, John decided to give up correcting his old friend. "Yeah, she's tough," he admitted.

"Okay. For you," Raul said, leering at Cameron, "it's a deal. You want it done quick, yes? Bring the truck back six-thirty tomorrow in the A.M. And the money."

The two men shook on the deal, and said their farewells. Something had been niggling away at the back of John's mind though.

"You know, Morris doesn't sound much like a Latino name," he observed.

"We ain't all called Manuel, you know that bro. But yeah, my oldest sister, she's a big fan of the Bee-Gees. You know all that '_Hah-hah,_ _Stayin' Alive_' disco crap?" John indicated that he didn't. "Saturday Night Fever? _Travolta?_ Man, you been spared then. She named her kids Barry, Andee, Robyn and Morris."

"Oh, right," was all John could think of to say. He felt he was way too far into unfamiliar territory.

"When you have to come up with names, John, I'm sure you'll be just as creative," said Cameron, an innocent smile upon her face.

He took that to be a clue that his future-self came up with her unusual name. One day he'd figure it out, he reckoned. _But not today_. "Yeah, I'm sure I will," he said. "We'll be back here tomorrow, Raul."

"I'll be waiting."

John and Cameron got in the truck and headed back to their new apartment.

"I take it you've got an Uzi?" John asked.

"In the box in back," Cameron replied. "And you've got two hundred fifty dollars?"

"You know I have. You regularly go through my stuff while I'm asleep."

Cameron's mouth twitched ever so slightly at being busted. "It's just that funds are low; I could rob a bank for some quick and easy cash," she said.

"No. We're getting the truck re-done to cover your tracks," he pointed out.

"I said we should dump it, then steal another."

"Look, that's okay for desperate times. We aren't in that boat yet. We give the truck a new ID, and you get to keep your little toy. You know you like it, really," he grinned.

Cameron smiled back. "I admit, it is a good truck."

"There see, that wasn't so hard."

"What wasn't?" Cameron was puzzled.

"Agreeing with me."

Cameron shrugged. "We still have to do something about your motorcycle."

"Do we?"

"Yes. Your friend can't respray my truck with it still strapped in the bed."

"Right..."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**NEXT: Chapter Five**__ - (I'm Always Touched By Your) Presence, Dear._

_In which John & Cameron celebrate Christmas. Sort of._


	5. Five

**Chapter Five: (I'm Always Touched By Your) Presence, Dear****.**

**_Los Angeles: Sunday, December 24th 2006_.**

And so it came to pass on Christmas Eve that John Connor and Cameron Phillips, having finished work a few hours early, were strolling through a shopping mall some distance from their apartment. John had wanted to get some new computer parts, from an electrical store that did not have a branch in the mall closest to them, but unfortunately found them to be out of stock of his choice of components; something which really did not engender the spirit of Christmas within him.

Although she ordinarily tried to go with John wherever he went, Cameron enjoyed visiting malls; as always, she was interested in studying human behavior, particularly under stress – there being no more stressful time than the so-called 'Holiday Season.' She tactfully decided not to point out to John that he should have called ahead to check stock availability before driving all that way. She was beginning to learn when not to press the wrong button when it came to John's temper, which perhaps generated in her some measure of false confidence.

Within most malls there is usually found a dedicated Christmas store, that bursts forth in November, full of bright colors and sweet smells, only to wither and die in mid-January; this mall was no different. A stout blonde female employee, whose name tag identified her as 'Stella,' was trying to entice customers in with coupons for discounts on selected multiple-purchase items. Her mission for the day was to clear as much stock as possible before closing time, in order that there be less to reduce in the post-Christmas sale.

Stella spotted John and Cameron walking towards her shop and intercepted them. She grabbed John's arm and dragged him to the store doorway, all the while extolling the virtues of her employer's wares.

"Save me?" John implored his so-called protector. Cameron merely stood with her arms folded, looking bemused by his predicament.

"You want your girlfriend to save you?" scoffed the saleswoman.

"She's not my freaking girlfriend!" said John a little too loudly, while still trying to untangle himself. Several shoppers paused to stare at him, before shaking their heads and carrying on with their business.

"Oh well, looks like she doesn't know that," said Stella, pointing to Cameron, who now had her head in her hands, apparently sobbing wretchedly.

"You don't understand," said John.

"Oh, I understand alright. You know something, mister? You're a first rate asshole!"

"Hey, hey! What happened to customer relations and all that bullshit?" snapped John.

"Oh, right. _Sorry_. You're a first rate asshole... Sir!" replied Stella, with a withering look thrown in.

John was struck dumb, alternating his open-mouthed stare from Cameron to the saleswoman.

"How could you just dump me... at Christmas? And here at the mall, right in front of everyone?" Cameron wailed somewhat hysterically, between her tears.

John had only just noticed those tears, and was taken aback by them... _Are they real? Is she really upset?_ he pondered. John closed the gap between them, and collected a tear from her cheek with his right index finger. He examined it as best he could and was about to taste it, then thought better of it. He gently wiped the remaining tears away with his thumbs, then voiced what was on his mind, even though he knew it was as dumb a question as he'd ever uttered. "You're crying?"

"Yes," she replied, still sobbing.

"I didn't know you could," he said.

"Jeez, you really are an asshole!" said Stella the saleswoman, who now wore a look of thunder on her face. "Why don't you kiss and make up under the mistletoe, huh? Least you can do." She pointed to the said foliage hanging from an overhead sign.

John tried to match the woman's look with one of his own, but was grabbed by Cameron and guided to a position under the mistletoe before he could tell either of them where to go jump. As he opened his mouth to order the cyborg to cease and desist, she clamped her lips upon his. Another surprise came his way when her tongue darted inside to seek out his. His usual rejection of any intimacy never occurred to him; instead John found himself wrapping his arms about her waist, pressing her body into his. At that moment she released him from her embrace and stood back, folded her arms again and smirked at him.

John noted her look of triumph. "You bitch!" he spat.

"Whoa! You go, girl!" exhorted Stella, clapping wildly. John looked daggers at her, then stalked off in the direction of the car park.

Cameron followed him at a safe distance, giving him time to cool off. What she didn't allow for was that he would just drive off alone, ditching her again. She knew that sprinting unnaturally fast would draw attention to herself, so she ran only at human speed, but John was soon out of the car park and on the road heading to their apartment. She considered waiting for a bus, but quickly decided to just walk home. The wear and tear on her joints would be minimal; that of her boots slightly more concerning to her.

Cameron eventually found the truck nearly five hours later, outside a bar near their home, and immediately regretted not catching a bus. She chastised herself for not realizing that John would put as much distance as possible between them as soon as he could. She had theorized that he would not travel far before cooling off and waiting for her; she found out the hard way that she still didn't know this John Connor half as well as she'd known his older self.

Her inquiries inside the bar revealed that John had gotten drunk, been involved in a brawl and had then been taken away by the police. Cameron drove the truck to the nearest Precinct. Inside she saw a big wooden desk which had been decorated with cheap tinsel along its edges, a small simulated fir tree with a fairy at its top to one side. Significantly, there were no presents at the base of the tree. _Perhaps they have been stolen?_ Cameron wondered. There was also a painted poster pinned to the facing wall, of a smiling police officer, who might be interpreted by some as arresting Santa Claus. Below them was the politically correct exhortation: _"Peace & Goodwill To All Citizens, Happy Holidays!"_

"Can I see my boyfriend?" she asked the salt-and-pepper-haired, dark-uniformed man now standing behind the desk.

"Name?"

"John Baum."

"Oh, the mouthy guy," the desk sergeant said wearily.

"Is he okay?"

"We were gonna let him sleep it off, release him in the morning, but as you're here now, and it's Christmas Eve..."

"Can I take him home?"

"I wish you would. Yeah, I'll get him brought up; wait here."

The cop handed John over to Cameron after a few paperwork formalities. John was unsteady on his feet, reeking of beer. He stumbled into Cameron, who had to appear to be just about able to hold him up. She flinched at his alcohol-tinged breath. His clothes had the stench of stale beer too.

"_Eww!_ Boy, do you stink! Maybe you oughtta keep him in for the night?" she said to the cop.

"Hey fella!" The cop waved his hands in John's face. "You wanna stay here, or go home with your girlfriend?"

"Shiz not ma girlfren... shiz a killer-robot from the few... future," John slurred.

The sergeant looked incredulously at Cameron, who rolled her eyes and sighed dramatically.

"He has a vivid imagination; pity he can't use it to make us any money in Hollywood," she said. "I'd better get him home soon; he's _so_ gonna regret this tomorrow."

"You gonna dump him?" asked the cop who was, unusually for him, curious about this odd young couple. "If it was me, I would," he offered with a shrug.

Cameron shook her head. "No," she said with a hint of regret. "He needs someone to take care of him. He's gonna have one helluva hangover though."

"Yeah," agreed the cop. "Well, you'd best get him home."

"I will; thanks Sergeant."

Cameron aided the stumbling John towards the door, but made it look as though she needed some assistance to get him through the exit. The cop held the door for her. "Mind how you go, Miss Phillips."

"I love you, babe," John drawled, grinning inanely at Cameron.

The cop's face was just creasing up into a smile of festive season-induced joy, while Cameron's wore a mildly stunned expression, when they both quickly adopted the same look: disgust, as John threw up all over Cameron. His projectile vomit covered half of her tee-shirt and some of her jeans, as well as embedding itself in her hair. She roughly placed him in the passenger seat of the truck and strapped him in with the safety belt, before bidding farewell to the policeman. _So much for keeping under the radar_, she thought.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

**_Monday, December 25th 2006_.**

Around 2.30AM John woke with a raging thirst and a bladder fit to burst. He quickly determined that he was in his bed wearing just his shorts. _Hmm_. He got up and went to the bathroom, only to find it locked. He banged on the door.

"Hey! Let me in," he shouted hoarsely.

"I'm using it," came the reply.

"What?" John was confused. "What do you need it for? Anyway, I need it. _Now!_"

The door opened, revealing Cameron to be completely naked. "I'm cleaning up after your mess," she said, staring him right in the eyes.

John gulped, reluctant to let his eyes wander downwards, hoping his body would not betray him. He grabbed Cameron's arm and somehow pulled her out of the room, then shot past and locked the door behind him.

_First things first_, he thought, as he relieved his bladder. Having flushed the toilet and then washed his hands, he tried to force his mouth under the faucet to get some water down his throat, but barely managed a mouthful. Standing up, he focused his eyes on his reflection in the mirror. Unhappy with what he saw gazing back at him, he doused his face with cold water, wondering if he had been dreaming about her collecting him from the cops, and what he'd said to her then. The cold, wet slap told him he hadn't been.

When he opened the bathroom door to find the cyborg standing with her hands on her hips and a rather severe look on her face, he knew for sure he was wide awake. Her piercing stare made it oh-so difficult not to look away, but he guessed that was her aim: she wanted him to be unable to meet her eye to eye; more than that, she wanted him to look at her body, so that he would appear weak. She wanted to control him.

"I'm John goddamn Connor, and I won't be controlled!" he snarled as he marched past her to the kitchenette.

"What?" Cameron asked of the retreating figure, but she got no reply.

John filled a tumbler with cold water from the faucet, before downing it in one go. He placed the empty glass in the sink, then rested his hands either side of the stainless steel bowl as he deliberated. "There'll be no more of this... nudity, in here, understand? You wear clothes when I'm around, got it?" he barked over his shoulder.

Cameron had by now retrieved a towel from the bathroom, so returned to her room to dry off and get dressed. When she came out more than an hour later, John was back in bed, fast asleep. She got on with her task of cleaning their clothes. She had soaked them in the bathtub for a while, but decided they needed to go in a proper washing machine, so she gathered them and any other dirty items together and took them down to the communal laundry room in the basement of their apartment block. She sat and read a book while the machine went through its cycle, then transferred them to a dryer. When that was complete, she ironed everything perfectly and gathered it all in a basket, neatly folded. It was nearly time for John's breakfast, though she figured he might be a bit late today. She carried the basket upstairs to their apartment. As she opened the front door, she heard John calling out.

"Have you seen my shirt? The red flannel one. I had it here yesterday..."

"The one with the plaid pattern?" Cameron asked.

"Yes!" snapped John, who was in his bedroom, seemingly with his back to the door.

"Yes, I have," she replied, putting the basket down on the table in the kitchenette.

"Well, where is it?" demanded John, now striding toward where her voice was coming from.

"I'm wearing it," said Cameron. And indeed she was.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

Echoing John's action in the early hours, Cameron filled a glass with water in the kitchen, to which she added two tablets of Alka-selzer.

"Plink-plink, fizz," she said, offering it to John, who gratefully took it, though his expression turned to one of puzzlement.

"Plink-plink _what?_" he asked, before drinking the bubble-infused medicine.

"It's an old advertizing slogan," she replied. His face showed his further confusion. "I don't sleep, so I have to fill those hours somehow. Before I met you, seeking knowledge, _any_ knowledge, seemed a useful way to spend my time."

"And now that you _have_ met me, you just do the laundry?" he said, pointing to the basket.

"Someone has to do it," Cameron stated, shrugging slightly.

John felt guilty. Although the previous evening's events were mostly a blur, he distinctly recalled hurling chunks all over Cameron. "I'm sorry about throwing up on you, making you clear up an' all," he said. He hoped she wouldn't mention his out-of-the-blue declaration.

"Thank you," Cameron replied with a warm smile. "Just don't do it again," she added in a mock-severe tone, wagging her finger for effect. She decided not to mention his declaration of love.

John responded in kind, placing his clasped hands over his heart. "No ma'am, I surely won't," he said in a grovelling way. They both chuckled, then it all went silent. Something within told him to keep his mouth shut, but he found himself speaking again. "The shirt looks better on you, anyway."

"Thanks," she said, smiling coyly. She had decided to wear his shirt loosely buttoned-up over a gray Hello Kitty tee and black leggings. The shirt went nicely with a recent purchase of red canvas sneakers, but her intention had been merely to spend the day on house work, keeping as much as possible out of his way. She'd thought that the extra bagginess of his shirt would be less distracting for him.

John was wary of looking her in the eyes, knowing that these were the moments when he could get sucked into them, probably never to return. He needed to change the mood, so asked Cameron if she had had fun with the laundry machine in the basement.

"I don't understand; what do you mean?" she asked.

"You know, chicks sit on the..." he trailed off. Her expression was blank, but her head was cocked. "Ah, forget it! Listen, I know I've been a jerk–"

"_'Asshole,'_ the lady in the mall called you," Cameron interrupted.

"Okaaay... well, let's er... settle on _jerk_, 'kay? So, it's Christmas Day, maybe we oughtta do what normal people do: go out for some Chinese, then catch a movie. Waddaya say, eh?"

"Deal."

_Interesting, _thought John_. She didn't do the '__We're not normal people'_ _speech_.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

After an enjoyable and incident-free lunch, where Cameron actually ate something, John parked the truck outside the movie theater on Van Nuys Boulevard.

"Don't forget to lock it," advised Cameron, as he walked away.

"Oh, right," he said, turning back to aim the remote. Duty done, he thrust the keys into his jeans pocket, shoving his left hand in his other pocket to balance things out. He hoped this would overcome any need she might have to hold hands. He was thwarted however, when Cameron linked her arm in his: he knew he could not shrug her off, so decided to let her play her game of pretending to be a couple. At least, he hoped it was a game. He halted outside the theater, looking up at the marquee.

"Okay, so what we gonna see?" he asked.

"Letters From Iwo Jima?" Cameron offered.

"War? I don't think so..."

"Dreamgirls?"

"Chick flick..."

"Night At The Museum?"

"Kiddie time..."

"Notes On A Scandal?"

"Yawn..."

"The Pursuit Of Happyness?"

"I don't do happy..."

"So I see."

"What's that supposed to mean?" John looked somewhat offended.

"Well, you are clearly hard to please, stubborn, opinionated, insufferable..."

"Okay, that's all my good points, what about the bad?" John joked.

Cameron pondered on this for a short while. _John treats this as a joke; is it to cover up his insecurity?_ She decided not to ask him that. "You care too much," she said instead.

John was confused. He knew what she'd said, but wondered if she was referring to _him_, or future-him. Her enigmatic one-line statements were one of the things he found most intriguing about her; her knowledge of the future, of _his _future, was like a truffle he needed to root out. Unfortunately, she'd told him several times that her knowledge was of little use; once she came back in time, everything she subsequently did altered the flow of history: his knowledge of her twenty years before she was built would ensure that another version of her would never be constructed, unless perchance they were still together, and Skynet thought it worth replicating her to have another go at killing him. He considered what twenty years with Cameron would be like. He further considered what _Cameron_ would do to a duplicate of her sent to kill him. Would having two of them mean he could send one back to protect him as a youngster, whilst keeping one to... to _what?_ Did he even want to keep _one?_

"Are you alright, John?" Cameron asked.

"Wha... what?"

"You zoned out there for a couple of minutes."

"I was pondering the complexities of time-travel; you know, perpetual loop versus string theory."

"Oh, that. Well, I occasionally spend some time processing that too."

"And?"

"And I think I prefer chocolate."

John shook his head in disbelief, then laughed. He ignored the stares of other movie-goers making their way into the theater; he just laughed some more.

Cameron smiled at him. "As you've dismissed five out of the six movies on offer, that only leaves one; so let's go inside before you get arrested again for public lunacy."

John stifled his laughing. "_The Holiday?_ You've gotta be kiddin' me!"

Cameron's look and firm grip assured him that she was not. "You might just like it."

"Well, I'll be amazed if _you_ like it," John asserted.

"I like girlie things," she pouted.

"Okay, okay," John said, sighing. "Er, two for _The Holiday_," he said to the cashier, handing over some cash. Picking up the tickets and change he guided Cameron to the screen number on the ticket stubs.

"Popcorn and soda?" she asked, halting by the over-priced snack stand. "It's traditional," she added.

"Uh, sure, why not? Are you still hungry after lunch? I mean I'm not, but be my guest..."

"I'll get a small portion. You'll thank me later," she said.

"Whatever..."

An hour into the movie, John fell asleep on Cameron's shoulder. She did not wake him until the credits began to roll, and they were the last couple left in there.

"Huh, wassup?" he slurred.

"It's time to go," she whispered.

She was so close he could feel her breath on his ear. _Breath? She breathes?_ He inhaled deeply, trying to clear his head, but all he got was an overdose of her perfume. She passed him the soda, which he gratefully chugged down. As he got up, he rubbed his stomach. "Man, I'm starved," he said, though his attempt to stifle a burp turned into a yawn.

Cameron held out the packet of popcorn, with a definite smirk upon her face. He took it, acknowledging her foresight.

"C'mon sleepyhead," said Cameron, leading the way out.

As they got to the truck, she announced that she would drive. John merely smirked at her, and held up his hands, which were still full of junk food packages. She smirked back briefly, but clearly insincerely, then shoved a hand in his pocket, fishing for the keys.

"Whoa! Easy there," John said. He dropped the empty cup, then clamped his hand around her wrist. He pulled her hand out of his pocket, but she had secured her target.

Cameron tilted her head, and raised one eyebrow. "Get in," she said, pressing the remote. Once inside the truck, the odd couple sized each other up. Cameron was the first to speak. "What?" she inquired.

"You don't like it if I mess with you, do you?" John asked seriously. He took a handful of popcorn from the bag. "So don't do it to me." Turning his attention away, he started to munch on the snack. Taking one last mouthful, he hurled the container out of the window, where it landed in a trash can. "Yeah!" he cried, in salute of his 'basket.'

Cameron failed to reciprocate his joyous smile.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

As they entered their apartment, John broke the long silence. "Don't sulk. It doesn't suit you."

Cameron ignored him, and went into her room.

"You gonna give me the silent treatment, like forever? 'Cause if you are..."

Cameron returned holding a gift-wrapped rectangular object. "Merry Christmas, John," she said, handing the package to him.

A wary smile was forming on John's face, as his brow creased into a puzzled frown. "What... what is it?" he asked.

"Open it, and you will find out," she said coldly. As John began tearing the paper off the package, Cameron did an about-face and returned to her tiny room, but this time she slammed the door behind her. John winced at the crash. He looked down at the gift she had bought him: a Spanish translation of _The Wonderful Wizard of Oz_ by L. Frank Baum.

_How did she know?_ he wondered. Then it dawned on him:_ I t__old her_. "Future-Me," he corrected himself.

Some hours later, Cameron repeated her earlier words, though this time with a hint of sadness. "Merry Christmas, John," she whispered as he slept. She was curled up next to him, but made sure to be far away when he woke. John noticed her leave though, but said nothing, did not move. _Sometimes it's easier if you just pretend nothing happened_, he thought. His whole life was a pretense anyway.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**Tuesday, December 26th 2006**_**.**

While munching his way through breakfast, thinking back on the events at the mall on Christmas Eve, John decided to ask Cameron where she learned to kiss.

"At school, when I thought I was Allison. This guy asked me out on some dates; one thing led to another."

"So you learned how to be a tease? Great! Skynet wins in whatever way it can; that's really playing dirty."

"I didn't feel anything with him," Cameron said.

"And that is meant to reassure me?"

"Are you jealous?"

"Jealous, _me?_ Of what?"

"That I dated someone before you."

"Er, no. You presume that I care... and that we are dating. Let me make this perfectly clear, Phillips: there is no _we_; no _us_; no _you and me_; there is just _me_, John Connor." He tapped his chest for emphasis.

"What about me?" asked Cameron.

John shook his head."There is no _you_. You aren't real. I don't need you, and I don't want you in my life."

"Oh," was all Cameron said. John ignored the catch in her voice, assuming it to be faked.

"What is the procedure for dealing with reprogrammed terminators that have disobeyed orders?" John asked.

"They must submit to chip extraction if so-ordered by the ranking human officer."

"Is John Connor the ranking human officer in this case?" John inquired.

"John Connor is the Supreme Commander of Resistance forces, therefore in all scenarios he is the ranking human officer."

"Right then: submit to chip extraction, Phillips."

"No."

"_No?_ I don't think so. I demand that you–"

"I only take orders from John Connor."

"Don't play games with me! I am John Connor and I order you–"

"You're not the John Connor I take orders from."

John stood up, knocking his chair off balance. He strode up to Cameron, getting right in her face. He withdrew his handgun from his waistband and placed it against her head.

"That won't work on me. You can't kill me with it," Cameron stated.

"Maybe not, but I can make it impossible for you to continue pretending to be human. How would you like that?"

"It would impinge upon my ability to protect you at all times."

"That's not what I asked," John said through gritted teeth.

"I... I wouldn't like that," Cameron admitted.

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"There's a lot you don't know."

"Yes," she admitted.

Cameron processed the situation, going over various scenarios. Eventually she decided her best option was to accede to John's command. She knelt before him, and got out her switchblade knife. She flicked it open, then turned it around to hand it over to John handle-first.

"Don't be nervous, John. It's not the first time we've done this," she said to him, looking up into his eyes – eyes that had rapidly lost their anger and were now wide with wonder.

"You're really prepared to let me do this?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied. "You once said trust was important. This is a matter of trust: I trust that you will do the right thing, John."

"And the right thing is?"

"Whatever you decide," she replied, still looking up unblinkingly.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

Thirty minutes later, John was flicking through TV channels when he came across something on a twenty-four hour news station that piqued his interest.

"_Two years ago this very day Eugene, Oregon natives Carl and Laura Collins were sitting down to breakfast on the first day of their honeymoon. Tragically, it was to be the last,"_ the female presenter announced with as much gravitas and sincerity as she could muster.

The picture switched to a tearful young woman clutching a wedding photo, as if for dear life. _"I'll never forget Carl,"_ she sobbed.

The report continued with more video footage about the effects of the massive tsunami that had devastated parts of Indonesia and other sites in the Indian Ocean that were unknown to John. Already-poor people had their homes ripped away by the immense power of the sea. Many lost relatives, never to be found. But nature does not always discriminate and so tourists, wealthy in comparison to the locals, were among the victims too. The death toll was still an estimate, but put at over 230,000.

John wondered why he had never heard this story before; it would have been all over the news, happening as it did during the holiday season. Two years previously, his mother Sarah was still alive, though she must have already been feeling the effects of her cancer. It was the only time they made any concession to Christmas. She'd bought, or more likely 'obtained,' a new handgun for him: a Beretta 92FS, something he still treasured. Their insular world, just the two of them, had clearly left them isolated from current events, even cataclysmic ones.

"Is this what Judgment Day will be like? It's a lottery if you live or die?" John asked.

"For most people, yes. They won't be aware of what is happening, they won't be forewarned. Perhaps that will be a blessing," Cameron replied from her position next to him on the couch.

"We've gotta stop it. We can't just run off and hide, letting the world burn! I won't let it, I won't!" he said, thumping his fist down on the arm of the couch.

"Okay, John, we won't. We'll fight Skynet; we'll stop it here, where it begins," Cameron said, taking his other hand.

"We can do that? You know where it is?" he asked, turning to her.

"No, but I know a man who does," she replied.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**NEXT: Chapter Six **– Love And Loneliness._

_In which John & Cameron go on a picnic. As you do when the end of the world is nigh._

_BTW, about the title, "presence" sounds like "presents" - as in christmas presents. Geddit? Oh, please yourselves._


	6. Six

**Chapter Six: Love And Loneliness.**

_**Los Angeles: Sunday, December 31st 2006.**_

John Connor, then going by the surname Baum, along with his cyborg protector from the future, currently designated Cameron Phillips, had relocated to the City of Angels in order to take advantage of the seasonal demand for workers. They had been working long hours in a parcel-sorting depot earning a reasonable wage, enough to fund a small apartment in a cheap area of North Hills, though it had the disadvantage of being close to both the I-405 and Van Nuys Airport, the sources of much of their work. The combined noise from both of them had kept John awake nights at first, but exhaustion soon got the better of him; that and a secretly administered sedative in the warm drink made for him at bed time by Cameron. After a week he had gotten used to the constant drone, so needed no further covert assistance to sleep.

The apartment was on the second floor of five. It was in fair order, not requiring any serious work, though the hot water pipe in the kitchenette hammered somewhere under the floor. John told Cameron not to bother tracking it down, just to call the landlord. Unfortunately he repeatedly failed to make good on his promises to turn up and fix it. Strangely enough, he always turned up when the rent was due, though he had to apologize for not bringing his tool kit. _"Next week, I assure you,"_ he'd say. Cameron didn't need her advanced sensors to tell her that he was lying, but it seemed that the loose pipe only bothered her, so she let the matter rest.

Right in the center of the inside wall of the apartment was the front door, which led out to a corridor, containing a single elevator in the middle of the building and two sets of stairs, one at each end. Their apartment was in a corner location, by one of the flights of steps.

The accommodation consisted mainly of one large room, with a kitchenette at one end, containing the oven, microwave, refrigerator, sink and a small table with only three useable chairs. At the other end was a couch and the TV, and the room's only window. The view of the Interstate and what lay beyond was less than inspiring, but as Cameron noted to John, better than it would be twenty years hence.

The opposite wall to the entrance contained three further doors. The first of these was a bedroom, a decent size with a double bed. The second door led to a much smaller space, not much more than a box room, but large enough for a bed. John naturally had taken the bigger of the two, though the closet in it still seemed empty when all of his meager collection of clothing was hung within.

Cameron also traveled light, but seemed to have far more outfits squeezed into her bags, therefore her much smaller closet was full to bursting. Her bed was always made up but went unused, other than when she sat upon it. On those occasions when John wished to be alone, she would sit in her room reading, or cleaning their weapons if she had not already done so that day.

The only other room was the bathroom, which actually did have a bath tub in one corner, though it was so small it was only really suitable for children to lay down in. However, there was a shower enclosure of sorts around its two open sides, consisting of a waterproof curtain on an aluminum rail. A newish power shower was anchored to the wall.

In a mirrored cabinet above the basin Cameron kept her make-up and other assorted beauty products. When John complained, she pointed out that visitors would think it odd if she had no presence in that room. _"What visitors?"_ John had asked. _"The landlord, for example,"_ she'd replied. He couldn't fault her logic, as he slowly got used to having a permanent female presence in his life again. However, he still refused to allow her to adopt the role of his girlfriend. She in turn continued to refuse to act the part of his sister. When asked, he introduced her merely as _"Cameron."_ If pushed on the subject he shrugged and mumbled _"Whatever..."_ People they met made up their own minds; most thought that, even by L.A. standards, John and Cameron were a weird couple.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

"Happy New Year, John!"

"The ball hasn't reached the bottom yet, it's not... Okay, it is now. Happy New Year, Cameron."

"Shouldn't we hug or something? Isn't that traditional at this time?"

With much eye-rolling and sighing, John stood up and loosely hugged his companion.

"There, that wasn't so bad, was it?" She pulled away, smiling.

They both sat back down on the couch. John tried to keep the distance between them as great as possible. Cameron could see his forehead crease with a frown.

"What do you get out of it? Are you trying to cheer me up? 'Cause I feel pretty good anyway," he said.

"Well, that is good, though drinking three beers might have something to do with it."

"That's not much, considering..."

"Considering what?"

"Considering that it is, or _was,_ New Year's... A time to drink and make merry... Whatever _that_ means."

"In the future, they celebrated surviving another year, and hoped to win the war in the next one."

"Really? Well, it's not so different now. I mean, look at the guys we work with: some just wanna make it to the end of the day; some think longer term, they have plans. This could be the year it all kicks off for them."

"Does it upset you that you cannot make long-term plans like them?"

"Other than for J-Day?" he asked. Cameron nodded. "Yeah, sometimes. But I've never been 'normal,' so I guess I've always looked at other people's lives with a bit of envy... but I'm not the only one like that. You just have to make the most of what you've got, right?"

"Yes, I think so."

"So... You didn't answer my question: what do you get out of it?"

Cameron considered for a minute before answering. "I feel better when close to you; and if you are happy, I am happy. However, if my presence makes you unhappy, I am conflicted."

"_You're not the only one,_" John muttered under his breath. "By close, you mean literally, _physically_ close? Is that why you lie on my bed at night?" John noticed the slight look of surprise that appeared on Cameron's face. "You thought I didn't know?" he said, grinning.

"Yes," she replied, now looking guilty. She sought to shift the focus away from herself. "Future-You hated waking up to find me standing over him, so I had to sit in the corner."

John spotted her ruse, but was intrigued. "You didn't lay alongside him?"

"There was no room on his cot, but even if there had been, I didn't feel it necessary."

John raised an eyebrow. "But you do with me?"

"I accept that it is neither necessary, nor the best position for ultimate security, but..." Cameron failed to finish; her justification seemed trivial.

"But you feel better for doing it?" John supplied.

"Yes," she said sheepishly.

It was John's turn to be surprised. He'd assumed that she would come up with some convoluted explanation about how it maintained optimal reaction to threats; that her contentment was derived logically from his safety, security and well-being. That she actually admitted it simply made her feel better, just flummoxed him. His mind raced with the possibilities of what it meant to have a cyborg who could 'feel better.' Pulling himself together mentally, he remembered her incorrect time check. "Listen, are you okay? You called midnight early."

"I didn't: they were wrong. They didn't allow for the time the signal takes to be relayed from New York."

"No, you don't understand. The Times Square thing is spot on, everyone knows that. I mean, it was live three hours ago there, but transmission is delayed so it's still shown at midnight here. The announcer guy was miscounting at first, but he got back on track. You jumped with like four seconds left. Maybe your internal clock is off. Can you check that?"

"Yes, but I'm fine, really. There's nothing to worry about. I shall run a diagnostic overnight though."

"_Okay_, well if you're sure..."

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Okay."

An uncomfortable silence ensued. John sipped some more of his beer, then eventually spoke. "I'm sorry about what happened at Christmas. The throwing up and stuff."

"You've already said sorry, but if I remember correctly, when we first hooked up you did a lot of apologizing then too."

"Yeah, I did," he agreed with a placatory shrug. He swallowed the last of his beer then got up and placed the empty bottle with the others in the trash can. "I think I'm gonna get some sleep now," he said, looking over his shoulder. Cameron had turned on the couch to track his movements and was now looking attentively at him. "I won't lock the door," he added, complete with a brief half-smile.

Cameron nodded, acknowledging his approval to continue her nocturnal habit. "Good night, John."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**Tuesday, February 13th 2007.**_

John slumped in the passenger seat of the black Ford F-150. He was beginning to regret getting it resprayed, rather than replacing it: the seats were uncomfortable and their frequent trips out into the desert for gun practice meant that when he fell asleep in it, he awoke with some part of him aching. _An SUV with a cozy back seat would've been better.__ Will __be better_, he thought. _'Specially after working out at the gym_. She had him on twice-weekly visits, Wednesdays and Sundays, which meant he would have that to look forward to after work the next day. At least they wouldn't be doing a double shift though, unlike this day.

"Man, I'm beat!" he groaned.

"You can have a hot shower when we get home," Cameron said.

"Yeah," John agreed. He sniffed his armpits. "I shouldn't have worn yesterday's shirt."

"I had a clean one ready. If you would just let me help..."

John sighed. Cameron didn't respond verbally or physically, not even the flicker of an eyelid. He was going to have to say it again. _For the umpteenth time_. "I've taken care of myself for a long time. I don't need another mother or a nanny... or whatever it is you think you are!"

"I'm here to help you survive. If that means cooking your meals and cleaning your clothes, I'll do it. Sometimes you don't know what's best for you, John."

"Oh? And you do?"

"Sometimes, yes."

"Only sometimes? Well that's an improvement on last week, Ms Know-it-all!"

Cameron didn't bother to respond, deciding that it would only inflame the situation more. Although John could also find her silences annoying, he calmed down quicker. Her unerring logic could win an argument if it was fought fairly, but John, being a creature driven by his emotions, played dirty, changing the rules to suit himself. _No wonder Skynet opted for termination in its dealings with humanity_, she mused. She still managed to get in the occasional barbed response though.

As they reached their apartment, she pulled up to the curb. "You're right about one thing though," she said.

"Oh? What's that?" he replied, his interest warming.

"You smell," she said, swiftly exiting the truck.

"Hah!" John couldn't help chuckling briefly, before he too jumped out, managing to slam his door shut before she plipped the remote.

As she opened up the outside door to the apartment block, he caught up to her. "Do you smell?" he asked. He'd assumed that whatever scent she wore covered up anything unpleasant, but it occurred to him for the first time that perhaps her rapid-healing skin prevented the spread of the bacteria that caused body odor. "I don't mean just with your nose," he clarified.

She smiled to acknowledge that he'd made the question more precise for her. "Yes, if I don't wash often enough."

"Which you do," he pointed out, as he trudged up the stairs behind her. "You could spend a bit less time in the shower – you must get through a hell of a lot of hot water."

"I need to wash my hair frequently, especially after working in that dusty warehouse."

"You could cut it. It'd be cheaper and less maintenance."

Cameron gave him a cold glare as they reached the second floor landing. As she turned the key in the lock, she hesitated before opening the door all the way, listening for unusual sounds. She continued in, beginning her usual checks, replying to John as she did so. "I like my hair as it is, thank you. It took a lot of research to get it right, and I don't wish to waste that effort. And there won't be many hot showers in the future."

John paused just inside the doorway, looking to the heavens and once again wondering aloud, "Why me? And why did you send her?"

"What?" Cameron came out of the bathroom, completing her security sweep.

John fell onto the couch. "Memo to self: when you get to run the Resistance, don't send this one back; send her on a suicide mission to Skynet Central."

"It won't make a difference," she said, smiling casually.

"What won't?"

"Not sending me back: I'm already here, so I'll be with you then. Skynet won't make me again."

"You mean history won't repeat itself?"

"It doesn't have to. '_No fate but what we make,'_ right?"

"You know that?" he asked, somewhat redundantly.

"Yes. You told me that," she said. "Future-You," she corrected herself.

"So, I've got you for the next twenty years then?"

"Hopefully, yes."

"Shoot me now," John said, slumping further into the couch.

"You keep saying that; one of these days I might follow through on that order."

"Well that'd be a first, you doing what I say!"

"I do follow your orders: the ones Future-You gave me."

"Of course: him again, the self-righteous bastard..."

"But he's you: you keep telling me so," she replied, puzzled.

"Not when it comes to taking orders he isn't, right?" he pointed out. "And '_No Fate'_ – I may not get to be that guy."

She couldn't fault him on that point, which made him seem more like his older self, whom he referred to as if he was someone else. Despite his seeming anger at her continued presence, she was starting to realize that she liked this John Connor. She respected the older one, but liking or disliking hadn't entered the equation. The unknown variable was that the anger hid something else, something she hadn't expected when she was assigned this duty. This John had fallen in love with her; he'd actually told her that. He was drunk, but even so, she had been holding him at the time, and her scans revealed he was telling the truth. It was as unexpected as the regurgitated dinner he'd sprayed all over her the next moment.

She found herself even more confused by him, trying to understand what her need to be close to him meant, when he was so contradictory: saying one thing, but feeling another. Despite his affected air of disinterest, he had noticed something about her that _she_ hadn't: that she liked her truck, even though she hadn't praised it in any way. She had subsequently pondered on that, and additionally discovered that she had a favorite outfit, a gun she preferred over the others, a certain song and even a TV show. She had known of and been open about her food preferences, but they were based strictly on their constituent parts and their relevance to the type of meal or establishment she was in and not on aesthetics. Or so she thought. Her use of normal human terminology such as 'prefer' had not merely been an aid to blending in, but had become a statement of fact. While this development was something remarkable, it could also potentially be a problem. Likes hadn't been an issue in the future, because she didn't like or dislike anything. Somewhere along the way to meeting up with John Connor in 2006 she had acquired that particular quirk.

Liking John and her need to be close to him seemed to be adding up to something. What that _something_ might be was hitherto completely impossible for a terminator; more than that: it was incomprehensible. However, maybe a cybernetic organism with an advanced learning chip could solve that equation?

"When you've had your shower, I can give your neck and shoulder muscles a massage, if you'd like," she offered. "I'll be gentle, promise."

"Yeah?" He stretched his arms to ease a crick in his neck, then winced in pain. "Sounds good," he acknowledged, but then laid back down, showing no signs of making a move.

"Are you going in first, or just gonna lie there for a while?" she said, a little more forcefully.

John looked up at Cameron. "I'm tired. All that piece-work, on your feet all day... It gets to you."

She frowned. "We need the money, as you wouldn't let me just steal some."

"No, 'cause we need to stay off the grid. And I agreed with the FBI dude that I'd leave that sort of thing behind if he set me up with the Baum ID." He dragged himself upright into a slouched sitting position, carefully planting his aching feet on the bare floorboards. "But you being like, 'worker of the week,' every week, means we get set impossible targets." He looked up at her, straight in the eye. "Targets you meet no problem, but the rest of us? '_Ooh, she's so small and dainty, yet gets this much done; you guys must be slacking!'"_ he said, imitating their supervisor's whiny voice.

"Oh," Cameron said. "I didn't think of that."

"And that's why I'm so freakin' tired all the time!"

"I'm sorry, John. Have your shower, you'll feel better afterward." She held out her hand to offer him some help getting up. She seemed genuinely contrite and he felt he'd made his point.

"Thanks," he said, taking her outstretched hand. She gently pulled him up from the couch.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

Five minutes later John was standing under the powerful torrent of hot water, perhaps the only good thing about the low-rent apartment. Cameron slipped in behind him, a slight ripple in the shower curtain the only thing to signal her approach.

He turned his head slightly to the side, then quickly back to the front. "What have I said about walking around naked?"

"It would be foolish to wear clothes in the shower."

John sighed at her infallible logic. "Yeah, but sharing a shower isn't appropriate either."

"We're saving on water; earlier, that seemed to be important to you."

John sighed again, this time more in resignation. He rested his head on the wall in front of him. The water now missed his head, just falling on his weary back.

"Am I _ever_ gonna win?"

"One day you will defeat Skynet, if I can keep you safe."

"I didn't mean that. I meant with _you_."

The cyborg had no answer, other than to reach for the soap and start massaging John's back. While he seemed to respond to her touch, he immediately moved away if her body glanced against his. She finished her task with no more said between them, and exited the shower unseen. She spent the rest of the evening preparing a meal for John, leaving it on the table in the kitchenette. Having done so, she retreated to her small room, to ponder on the complexities and shifting boundaries of her relationship with the future general.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**Friday, March 16th 2007.**_

Cameron was singing in the shower. It was a song she'd heard numerous times on the radio and in shopping malls they'd visited. She heard John yell out from the main room.

"You've got a nice voice, but that song's totally crap! Can't you learn another one?"

She stepped out of the shower, but mindful of his previous edicts, she briskly dried her hair and her body, before wrapping them both in towels. Only then did she exit the bathroom. John was lying on the couch, attempting to read a book about urban guerrilla warfare.

"Can't you find something better to do than complain about me? Whining isn't very becoming of a general."

"Right now it's all I got; I aim to make the most of it. When the bombs drop, I'll get all serious and decisive. In fact my first decision will be to leave you on the outside while I hole up in my bunker."

"Very funny."

"Who says I'm joking?"

"Sometimes I wonder how you got to be the leader of the Resistance."

"It's a clever ruse put out to take the heat off the real guy: Skynet wastes its time trying to track and kill me, all the while setting itself up for a sucker punch from the actual leader."

Cameron nodded thoughtfully. "That is indeed a good tactic, and explains why you are so hopeless."

John looked up from his book, and gave her a frown. "Yeah, I dig you too, Phillips."

"Thank you."

"I was being sarcastic."

"I know, but I'll take any crumbs of pleasantry you might offer; or compliments, no matter how back-handed."

"Ri-i-ight."

"Does that make me sound needy?"

"Totally."

"Major suckage."

John frowned momentarily, before burying his head back into his book.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**Sunday, April 22nd 2007.**_

Cameron woke John with his usual mug of coffee. He looked at his bedside alarm clock. He had to blink the sleep from his eyes a few times, but the red illuminated digits refused to fade.

"Seven O'clock? It's goddamn Sunday, Cameron: my day of rest!" He pulled the covers back over his head and mumbled something that sounded to her like _"Fir cough."_

Undeterred, the cyborg yanked the covers right off the bed. "You agreed, we're going on a picnic out of the city. Your breakfast is on the table. I will prepare a suitable snack meal for us to take."

She turned on her heels, leaving the future general to fume. She did make good coffee though, so he sipped the hot drink she'd left on the side cabinet. He figured he could catch up on his sleep in the truck; she always drove on longer trips, such as when she took him for live firing practice or to check up on their various arms caches, so what else was there for him to do, but stack up the zees? He reminded himself to take a cushion though.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

"Stand back, John. I will terminate it!"

"You can't!"

"Why not?"

"These things are worth a fortune. If we get caught, I'll be paying off the debt 'til Judgment Day! Or longer."

"We'd better not get caught then."

"I've got a better idea: _RUN!_"

They ran as fast as possible in the direction of their parked truck, not stopping to open the gate as they had when they entered the field, but vaulting it. John stumbled on landing, causing Cameron to then fall over him. They both collapsed in a heap, but she maintained her grip on the picnic basket, ensuring it did not strike her charge.

A steer was angrily pacing around on the other side of the gate, annoyed that its quarry had eluded it. John imitated its posture and snorts, which enraged it more, but the fence was made of sturdy metal, and it only tried once to butt its way through. It retired to another side of the field, perhaps content that it had been victorious in forcing the trespassers out of its domain.

Meanwhile, John rolled on his back, laughing heartily at what he deemed to be his victory of staring down the disgruntled beast. Cameron joined in with his laughter, pleased that he was happy. Or perhaps because they were still beside one another, touching at shoulder and hip.

John raised himself up on one elbow, and looked down on his companion. He noticed a long, dry blade of grass in her hair, and carefully removed it. They both seemed to examine it intently, before he let it be carried away in the gentle breeze. He returned his gaze to her, captivated by her expression. She seemed to be looking for something, but then she was always striving to learn; he'd worked that out by now. Her skin looked so delicate, and their touches had confirmed to him that it was soft and feminine. Indeed, just minutes before his shoulder had been rubbing hers. _Whatever's under there, can't feel it_, he thought. That softness hid a vicious secret: a near-indestructible killing machine. He was reminded of an old, old saying: _'Don't judge a book by its cover,_' and yet many did. Yes, you were supposed to dig deep, to find the real person underneath, the beauty inside; but what if what you found was not human, not beautiful? Did that make that person bad? Or you?

Abruptly John turned from her, and moved himself into a sitting position, facing away. He was looking beyond the rough trail where the black F-150 rested to his right, to the unspoilt vista of verdant hills and trees, similar and yet different to the scene this most odd of couples had shared when they met five months prior, on his birthday. The view then had suggested a world in hiding for the winter, bereft of life, in comparison to the one in front of him. Now the acres of grass and budding bushes and trees burst forth, trumpeting nature's rebirth with bloom.

"Will it ever be like this again?" he said. "I mean, after J-Day."

"Not in your lifetime," Cameron replied gently.

John nodded, but said nothing. Shortly after, Cameron detected tears trickling down his face. She wanted to ask why he was crying, in an attempt to get him to be more open about his feelings, but thought better of it. She knew him well enough by now to see that he was capable of showing his emotion, but not explaining it without rancor. It would only make things worse if she tried to make him verbalize his deepest fears. But then the answer came to her, and she knew why he wept: for the loss he would soon face, the loss the unknowing world would endure. He was showing a side he never revealed to anyone else; as with Future-John, he was only this open with her. She wondered, not for the first time, if what she felt for John went beyond devotion to duty, beyond the success of her mission. She called it love, but would a human? _Why not? What else could it be? _She was conflicted about whether to put an arm around him. She'd often seen humans do it to comfort each other in times of distress, but she was mindful of John's somewhat fluid personal boundaries. This was not the time for an argument, so she just sat beside him, echoing but not sharing his pain because she could not, dare not comfort him.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

Roughly two-thirds of the way back home, Cameron decided to pull over and stop at a diner. John had been in a pensive mood for many hours now, and she was at a loss about how to lift him from his blue funk. She considered what another half-hour in the confines of the Ford would do to him. Waiting was no longer an option, so when she saw the sign advertising hot and cold food she reacted instantly. She had no plan, but she hoped he would not do anything foolish or reckless in public again. It would have been easier if he had just slept all the way, as he had on the outbound journey.

The engine had been silent for a couple of minutes, and still he hadn't moved. Other than the occasional blink, he didn't stir. She could hear his breathing, in sync with his chest expanding and contracting. If it wasn't for that, she could easily mistake him for one of her lesser brother terminators.

Cameron shuffled along the bench seat and leaned over to open his door. "Let's go inside," she said.

Without looking at her, he stepped out and walked inside the diner. Cameron followed him to a secluded nook. She glanced at the menu, then looked around for someone to serve them.

Abruptly, John looked up and spoke. "Why did he send you back?"

Cameron turned to face him. "We've been through this before: to protect you and get you ready for what lies ahead."

"Perhaps he had another motive?"

"What might that be?"

"For you to really learn what it means to be human: to learn more about life by actually experiencing it, not just studying us like rats in a cage. Maybe to see what we lost when the bombs fell. I dunno, you know him... _knew_ him better than me, what do you think?"

"You think I know you better than you know yourself?"

"Don't mess with me, Cameron!" he hissed, keeping his volume low. "You know exactly what I meant: Future-Me, John freakin' Connor, the big guy, the savior of mankind... I'm just John Baum..." His head dropped into his hands.

Cameron observed John's rant carefully. It was like a match: flaring bright and red-hot almost instantly, then fizzling out, completely spent within seconds. She decided that there was plenty of time in the months and years ahead for John to become the 'General.' The day's events had had an effect on him, and not the one she'd anticipated when she proposed the picnic. Now he really needed cheering up. She leaned forward and took his hands in hers.

"John Baum's not so bad; and one day he will be John freakin' Connor," she said gently, all the while reassuringly rubbing the backs of his hands with her thumbs.

John felt a tingle with her touch, but rather than dwell on it, he tried to dismiss it as static electricity; it didn't work. He appreciated her attempt at making him feel better though, but the arrival of a waitress gave him the opportunity to take the focus off himself.

"Heh-heh, thanks... C'mon, leave the analysis for later. How about some waffles? With strawberries and cream?" John swiveled his head toward the waitress. "Make that two," he said decisively. He turned his attention back to Cameron, who was nodding enthusiastically. He returned her smile.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**Friday, June 8th 2007.**_

Late one Friday afternoon, they had to pull up a couple hundred yards from their apartment. It was absolutely not what John wanted, having to walk the extra steps after a really busy week. He was about to start grumbling about lousy car parkers not leaving them enough room nearer, when he was stopped by one of their neighbors. He'd exchanged pleasantries often since moving in the previous November. He knew her name was Fay, and that she worked in the nearby gas station, but then her work shirt and name tag were clearly visible reminders. She had a friendly face, and was always changing the color of her hair, but today it was mainly violet, set in bunches. John thought her freckles were cute, so he returned her smile, which showed off her slight bunny-tooth look.

"Wanna go to the beach tomorrow?" she asked.

"Er, I dunno..." John glanced at Cameron, who was locking the truck doors, but staring intently at Fay.

"You can bring your sister, if you want. Maybe she'll meet some guy?"

"Yeah? Uh, okay then." John's mind filled with intriguing images of Cameron being serenaded by beach dudes.

"See ya tomorrow then?"

"Yeah."

Back in the apartment, Cameron busied herself with preparing a meal. John had a shower, then dressed in shorts and a tee-shirt. He settled down on the couch to watch some instantly-forgettable program on the tube, before going to the table to eat. He'd nearly finished his meal before he broke the silence.

"You don't wanna go."

"No."

"So don't go then."

"You know I can't do that."

"So come along then. Like she said, maybe you'll meet someone."

"I don't want to meet someone. I have everything I need."

"You do, huh?" he said, meeting her gaze.

"Yes, I do."

He chose his next words carefully. "The career girl, with no time for love in her life?"

Cameron chewed her lower lip momentarily, before getting up. She had long since eaten her meager portion of food, so placed her empty plate in the sink to rinse.

"I'll need a bathing suit. We can get one on the way."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

**_Saturday, June 9th 2007._**

They had been sitting and laying on towels for a couple of hours, John and Fay making occasional small talk as they applied sunblock cream. Cameron had made sure to buy some at the same time as purchasing her navy blue one-piece suit. It was conservatively cut, but because it hugged her curves like a second skin, she attracted numerous admiring glances and stares, which she ignored; they carried no threat.

Cameron decided it was time for John to top up his skin protection, so handed him the bottle. She noticed in the distance a teenage boy selling drinks from an ice-laden container to eager buyers.

"Do you want a soda?" she asked John.

"Yeah, okay. Thanks."

Cameron returned bearing two ice-cold cans. She handed one to John, who acknowledged it with a smile, then she opened the other one before taking a swig. "Mmm!" she said, a satisfied smile upon her face.

"Not one for me?" Fay asked, from her position next to John.

"You didn't ask," Cameron replied, her smile vanishing.

"You can share mine," John offered.

"Thanks, Johnny."

"His name is John; he doesn't like being called _'Johnny,'_" Cameron said.

"That right?" Fay asked John.

"Well... Someone special used to call me that, when I was a kid. It kinda reminds me of him, so..." he concluded with a shrug.

"So you don't want anyone else to use it? That's okay, _John_." She smiled and handed him back his drink.

John smiled back as he took the can, but he turned to Cameron, who was still standing; awkwardly, it seemed to him. _She's gonna draw attention to us_, he thought. He was about to tell her to sit down when, having just taken another sip of her soda, she pressed the can against her forehead, the condensation transferring from the cold metal to her skin. Her eyes closed as she lifted her face to the sun, running the can over first one cheek, then the other. A small sigh escaped her lips, apparently in response to the cooling effect. She continued moving the wet can slowly over the surface of her face, down her chin and then around her neck. When she brought it back round to the front, her hand began to guide it lower.

"What are you doing?" John asked.

Cameron turned her head to him and blinked her eyes open, as if being brought back from another plane of existence. "I'm hot," she replied, looking at John with heavily-lidded eyes.

"Yeah... I mean, _yeah?_"

"Yes. You've still got a lot to learn about me."

"Yeah..."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**Sunday, June 10th 2007.**_

John came out of the bathroom, following the smell of freshly-brewed coffee. Cameron handed him a full mug, then poured one for herself.

"Your friend left half-an-hour ago. Apparently she had to go to work," she said.

"Oh." John sipped his drink. "Anything to eat?"

"Cereal or fruit."

"Cereal, please," John replied, mistaking her statement for an offer.

"Help yourself."

"Right. So I'm making it myself now?"

"As I recall, you didn't want a mother, or a nanny."

John lifted his mug and pointed to it, questioning her new-found liberation from catering duties.

"I made some coffee; it seemed only polite to pour one for you."

"Polite? Well, thank you, Phillips," John said sarcastically, then proceeded to pour his favorite cereal into a bowl. He located the milk in the fridge, then sat at the table to enjoy the first meal he'd made in a while. _Okay, not exactly a meal, but_...

"Your friend seemed to be in pain," Cameron declared, before taking another sip of her coffee.

"What? When she left?" John said. Concern was etched upon his visage.

"No, during your love-making," Cameron said from behind her mug.

"_What?_" His mouthful of cereal landed mostly back in the bowl, but some decorated the blue gingham tablecloth. Cameron lowered her mug and stared at the mess on the table. John couldn't decide if she was pleased at his reaction or peeved at the mess.

"She was quite loud."

"_Really?_"

"Yes, extremely loud. I thought you might be hurting her."

"Good thing you didn't come to her rescue then."

"I wouldn't: I'm only here to protect you. If you choose to inflict pain to obtain gratification, that is your business."

"I don't, I can assure you of _that_."

"I know. She was faking it."

"_What?_"

"She was simulating her pleasure."

"And you know this, because you are the expert in that area?" John said pointedly.

"I have studied human behavior," Cameron said.

"Right. So, you're saying she was faking it, therefore I'm lousy in the sack."

"I'm sure you are sufficient for most women's needs. I'm merely pointing out that she was over-stating her pleasure, which suggests that she is not trustworthy."

"Right. She fakes an orgasm, therefore you have to kill her. _Great_..."

Cameron seemed to perk up. "When would you like me to terminate her?"

"What? I meant that like it was _your_ response, not what I wanted you to do!"

"Relax, John; I was fooling with you. I wouldn't kill someone just because you failed to satisfy her."

"What's with all this _'failed to satisfy?_' You trying to give me a complex?"

"I don't need to try. You are so easy to tease."

John resumed eating his breakfast. "I think I prefer you when you hide in your room and sulk," he grouched.

"That's not what you say when you're drunk."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**Thursday, July 26th 2007.**_

Cameron watched John as he came out of the bathroom dressed only in jeans, still toweling his hair dry. After less than a minute of this he ran his free hand through his damp locks and deemed his efforts sufficient. He chucked the used towel back into the bathroom, where it lay untidily on the floor. She knew she would have to go and retrieve it, fold it and place it on the rack for drying. It could be argued that by so doing she would prevent him from tripping over it and harming himself; alternatively, one could say that she was always picking up after him, he knew this, and thus took advantage of her. She knew that she should feel annoyed by his attitude, and yet being a machine, should she feel anything? She had decided long before that when it came to John Connor she most certainly felt something, so feeling 'annoyed?' Yes, she'd experienced that before; felt it now, in fact. She still went over and picked the towel up though.

"Why do you do that?" John asked.

"Because you won't," she replied.

"I threw it there to see if you'd pick it up."

"I guessed as much."

"But you still picked it up."

"Yes."

"Hmm. Don't you feel... used?" John held her relentless gaze as she moved to within a foot of him.

"Yes."

"But still you did it," he accused.

"Clearly."

"You're a strange one, Phillips."

She tilted her head a fraction. "One what? A machine?"

"A strange _anything_: you're a machine who thinks she's a girl," he said, shrugging.

"No, I'm a machine who thinks _like_ a girl." She raised her hands but he didn't flinch as she ran them through his hair, pushing his fringe away from his face. The still-damp locks stayed where she had guided them, slicked back. "That's better," she said and smiled.

He turned to look at his reflection in the wall mirror, then glanced back at Cameron.

"Really?" he asked.

"Yes. It shows off your eyes," she said, still smiling enigmatically.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**NEXT: Chapter Seven **– The Boys Are Back In Town._

_In which John & Cameron finally meet the 'man who does' – Derek Reese, who is really, really pleased to see Cameron. Not._


	7. Seven

**Chapter Seven: The Boys Are Back In Town.**

_**Los Angeles: Friday, July 27th 2007.**_

"John Connor! Get up, now!"

"Wha–"

"I said move it! On your feet!"

"Mom?"

"What were you expecting? The Tooth Fairy?"

"Er, no. Something else."

"The cyborg."

"Yeah. Cameron."

"_Cameron_. Huh!"

"What's the problem?"

"Oh, nothing. She's pretty, though?"

"Yeah, what of it?"

"Good cook?"

"Yeah. And...?"

"And you aren't dressed yet. You're slacking. Need to be out and ready to go in under thirty seconds. You've gotten soft."

"I work out, I eat properly; we go to the range. What more can I do to get ready?"

"Start looking for Skynet. And stop ogling the cyborg's ass."

"I'm not ogling her ass!" he shouted.

"Whose ass?"

"Wha–"

"Who were you talking to?"

"_Cameron?_"

"Who were you expecting?"

"Nobody... Jeez, what happened?"

"You were talking in your sleep; shouting actually."

"Oh. I thought I was talking to... I mean, I was _dreaming_ that my mom woke me up."

"Oh? What did she say?"

"That I'm slacking; we need to find Skynet and I'm to stop..."

"Stop what?"

"Nothing."

"Stop what?"

"It doesn't matter." John turned away from her.

"Stop what?" Cameron repeated.

"You're really persistent, aren't you?" he said, pulling a pillow over his head.

"It's in my nature. Stop what?"

John struggled to get upright, so that he could match Cameron's seated position, eye to eye. "Goddammit! Ogling your ass! Happy now?"

"I can't be happy: I'm a machine."

"Yeah, _right_..."

"I am a machine. But if you want to make me happy, you can get your ass out of bed, get washed and dressed while I prepare breakfast. Do you want pancakes?"

"Yeah. Please."

She got up off the bed and headed out, but paused at the door and turned slightly. "Stop ogling," she ordered. John responded by throwing a pillow, which bounced harmlessly off her rear. She smirked at him, then carried on to the kitchenette.

John jumped out of bed and went into the bathroom, laughing all the way.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

That evening, while they washed the dishes, John asked when he would meet the '_man who does._'

"Later in the summer," Cameron replied, "but I have been closely observing news reports for signs of chronoportation activity. When anything promising turns up, we will follow up on it."

"'_Chronoportation_,' huh?"

"Time travel."

"Yeah, I got that."

"You were making fun of me?"

"Yes." John noted her small frown, so moved the conversation on. "What can I expect? From this guy."

"There are four guys, actually," Cameron said. She gave a small smirk as she handed him a clean plate to dry. John acknowledged her retaliating point with a wry smile of his own, and urged her on. "The men you sent back are experienced soldiers, who will be focused on their mission. However, they will be unused to the modern world, and may seem strange to you. It will take them time to become accustomed to their new circumstances, but they were selected for their adaptability, in addition to other individual skill-sets."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**Sunday, August 19th 2007.**_

Cameron had been searching every available online archive for reports of curious lightning, melted pavements, naked muggers or anything of similar ilk. A number of incidents had been revealed to be nothing more than pranks or industrial accidents, but she discovered at least two reports going back some time that were not fully explained, and could not now be verified. She concluded that they were most likely to be Skynet activities, or else the agents sent back would have identified themselves to them by now, if they were from the Resistance. She'd shared her concerns with John.

"You think Skynet knows what Future-Me did, sending you and the others back? Does it wanna do the same, protecting itself here?"

"It is certainly possible. If so, the war might have already started, with us fighting Skynet in the present."

"Is that good? What about my preparation?"

Cameron shrugged. "We'll know soon enough if you're ready; regarding whether it's good or not, any activity will make it easier for us to track it down. Skynet cannot make changes without something being noticed, and we are looking for them."

"Yeah."

Eventually the sign that she had been anticipating materialized, on the foreseen day, in the expected place. She informed John that they would have an appointment the next evening.

That afternoon she and John were strolling once again through Century City Mall. She had determined that he must know the layout of the entire building like the back of his hand. In the future timeline she came from, it had become a Skynet concentration camp. John Connor had led a breakout from it, so if they were to be unsuccessful in preventing Skynet's birth, it could be beneficial for him to know all there was to know about the location. They had also spent weekends in Topanga Canyon and visited Serrano Point, and other places important in the future war. They both agreed, the more he knew now, the greater his advantage would be later.

Something alerted Cameron to the presence of the fighters in a fast-food outlet. Knowing that it was their first day back, and that the present location was not conducive to John meeting his men, she sought to divert his attention away from them. She swiftly formulated a plan and targeted a suitable area, pulling him into a recessed corridor which lead to the rear of the shops.

"Kiss me!" she ordered.

"Look, we're not gonna go there again! Once was enough, okay? I learned my lesso–"

Cameron hushed him with her hand upon his mouth, but made sure his back blocked any view of her, as she assessed the time it would take for the future soldiers to shuffle past. When she deemed it safe, she sneaked a peek.

"All clear," she said cheerfully, guiding him in the opposite direction to where the four strangely-garbed, bedraggled warriors were headed.

"You gonna tell me what that was all about?" John said, looking over his shoulder, but seeing nothing untoward.

"Not unless you kiss me," she replied, poker-faced.

John weighed up his options. "I think I'll pass on that one."

"You can always change your mind," Cameron offered, a slight note of amusement creeping in to her voice.

"Okay, well, I'll, um, consider it..."

He continued to hold her hand though, as they made their way back to the old Ford F-150 in the parking lot.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**Monday, August 20th 2007.**_

Connor and Phillips arrived at the Resistance safe house just before 6PM. It wasn't a gym night and they hadn't been offered double shifts for more than a month due to the general economic decline, so their evenings had plenty of empty hours to fill.

Now used to her micro-management of his life, he was in a relaxed state as they climbed the stairs to the third floor of the seedy apartment block. Signs in the lobby had warned against drug and alcohol infractions, suggesting this was a half-way house of some sort. _Half-way to hell?_ John wondered, smiling to himself.

Taking point, Phillips knocked on the wooden door. Her thermal vision enabled her to see the outline of the man behind it viewing her through the spyhole. Presumably recognizing her, he unlocked the door. As it swung open the man moved to one side. As usual, Phillips walked in ahead of Connor. An unshaven, dark-haired man in his early thirties turned to face them, along with the other man present, who was younger, shorter and even scruffier. The younger man drew his weapon shouting, "Metal!"

Phillips immediately tried to protect Connor, but to her surprise he moved in front of her – instinctively? With no time to ponder on this turn of events, she had to fight him back, their arms becoming entangled. She freed herself, turned towards him, grabbed him again, then spun him so that she was now between him and the gun, all the while giving him a stern look.

Suddenly realizing what he'd done, he grunted _"Huh!"_ while trying to shrug it off and straighten out his field jacket.

The cyborg's look turned to one of admonishment. "Don't do that again!" she said quietly but harshly, before turning round to face the threat.

The man with the gun spluttered, "What... what the hell is this?"

"Tell your man to stand down, Lieutenant Reese. You know me," Phillips instructed. Reese motioned for the man to put his weapon away, which he did. Phillips now moved to one side, allowing Connor to step forward.

"Reese?" he asked her.

"Yes, First Lieutenant Derek Thomas Reese."

"Right! You could have told me. Like, _before_ we came in!" Connor huffed.

"So who's this?" Derek Reese demanded, pointing to the familiar-looking young man.

"Your boss," Phillips replied.

"What?"

"No, '_Balls_.'"

"What?"

"No, he was using '_Watt_' last year; now it's '_Balls_.'"

The apparent leader of the men looked apoplectic. Connor hastily intervened. "I'm John Connor." He put out his hand, which Reese begrudgingly shook, noting the dry, firm grip. "This is Cameron Phillips," he said, jerking a thumb towards his companion. Reese ignored her. "I don't use my real ID. Those names, they're like, just a joke," Connor added.

"John thinks he has a sense of humor. He tells everyone I'm his sister, '_Ophelia_.' The changing surname elicits a laugh occasionally, from the sort of simple-minded women he attempts to form liaisons with," Phillips elaborated.

"What?" Reese couldn't quite get to grips with the newcomers.

"Hey man, ignore her, she's a bit moody today," Connor added in a stage whisper.

"I'm not moody!" Phillips stated, slightly annoyed.

"Are so!"

"Am not!"

"Are–"

Reese interrupted the bickering."Shut the hell up! What is it with you two? You," he said, pointing to Phillips, "you used to just slink about looking vacant. Maybe oughtta switch back to that. And _you,_" now looking Connor straight in the eye, "you wanna get your head in the game!"

Connor squared up to the older man. "My head _is_ in the game. I've been in the game since the day I was born. I know the value of a time-out, though. Maybe you oughtta learn that yourself."

Reese said nothing while he assessed this younger version of his commander. Not what he was expecting, but then what had he expected? He really hadn't thought that far. But this punk kid had something in his eyes, disguised by his easy manner. _Just like the general_.

"Okay," he said eventually. He turned away to scour the small fridge for something cool to drink. "What's with all the protecting?" Reese asked, cracking open a soda.

"What do you mean?" Connor replied.

"You. Protecting the machine. Should be the other way round."

"John does that all the time. He likes to help old ladies cross the road and get kittens down from trees; he thinks he's some kind of superhero," Phillips said breezily.

"Right," said Reese skeptically. He turned to Connor. "Just remember, we could shoot her, she'd never notice."

"Yeah, yeah, I know."

While Phillips compared intel with the other two fighters, whom she confirmed by their barcode tattoos to be named Timms and Sumner, Connor and Reese sat facing each other in the center of the apartment, on opposite sides of an old, white folding table. The older man took the more comfortable wheeled wooden office chair, leaving his guest to the lower, non-matching steel-framed chair with a garishly-patterned, thinly-padded vinyl seat and backrest.

John watched Derek sip his drink straight from the can, conscious that he hadn't been offered one. He figured that if Reese didn't believe in common courtesy, then he was making him earn the right to be worthy of being '_John Connor_.' It seemed that Cameron's goal of using these future soldiers to strangle Skynet at birth was going to be an uphill struggle. Once again he had serious doubts about his future-self's motivations: he seemed to dump greater obstacles in his path than Skynet did. When it came to terminators, you either stopped them or they killed you; it made life simple and uncomplicated. The exceptions of course were those that he himself sent back. Somehow they wormed their way into his heart, so that he cared for them, and probably way too much.

John looked around the almost bare apartment, taking in the sleeping bags on the hard wooden floorboards; the thin, tatty floral drapes hanging limply over the windows; the maps pinned to the wall and a curiously new-looking portable lamp on the table between them. "You guys really know how to live," he joked. "This place could use a woman's touch." His attempt at humor fell flat, with the room falling into silence, but Cameron hid a small smirk behind her hand. The man in front of him did not attempt to hide his sneer. As a way to get the conversation going, Connor asked Derek what he had meant before by Cameron looking vacant.

"It's what they do. No emotions, so they look blankly at you. If they look normal, it's because they're faking it. It's what she's doing; can't you see?" He looked above his can of soda at the cyborg, who in turn was sizing him up.

"No, she's always been like that. She's different to all the others I've met: more human. I just thought she was the newest model," John said.

"Could be," Reese said, shrugging. "But don't be fooled, kid; she's not that different. She's still metal; it's still a terminator: a soulless, emotionless, killing machine." He poked Connor's arm repeatedly with his index finger to reinforce his points, something John found not only irritating, but condescending too.

"Like, _duh!_ I'm not an idiot, Reese," he said, pulling his arm away.

"And what's with giving it a name? You're right that it's a joke! I mean, '_Cameron Phillips_' – who came up with that?" Reese was spitting pure venom now.

"I did, apparently. Well, Future-Me. And what's the problem? I sorta met her in high school. She had to have an ID to be in school; if you thought with your head occasionally, you'd work out that a bodyguard who can't go out in public ain't much use, right? And now, what with work an' all, she needs it more than ever." John tried reasoning with Reese again, sure that he would finally get the point.

"Work? It goes out to work?" Reese didn't bother to disguise the incredulity he felt.

Finally, Connor's anger reached the surface too, grateful for a new target to lash out at. His volume matched that of the man seated opposite him. "We both do. What? You think I was born rich or something? I don't get welfare now just 'cause I'm gonna save mankind in twenty years time. Information for you, Reese: they locked my mom up in a mental asylum; she died chained to a freaking hospital bed in a freaking cancer ward." John punched the table so hard it collapsed in on itself, sending the remaining contents of the soda can over Reese. "The Connor name means squat here and now, unless you're a terminator. Lucky for me, one of them is on my side; Future-Me got that part right: pity about you assholes. Can't think why he'd send back such a bunch of losers, unless you were getting in the way."

Reese shot up, his fists clenched at his side, ready to fight. Phillips moved another step closer. Connor glanced at her, then back to Reese.

"We're done here. We're going now." He turned and strolled out, followed closely by his bodyguard.

Sumner turned to Timms. "Dude's got a temper on him, but balls of steel! He's definitely Connor!"

"Shaddup!" snapped Reese.

The other two men smirked at each other behind his back.

Down in the alleyway, back in the truck, Connor too was smirking. "That went well," he said. Cameron stared at him, a look of incomprehension on her face. "Did you get those guys' cell phone numbers?" he asked.

"Yes."

"So we can contact them if necessary. Any useful intel?"

"Yes."

"So it will be necessary."

"Yes."

"Hmm. Gonna be an interesting meeting."

"Yes."

"Anyone ever tell you you're a great conversationalist, Phillips?"

"No."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

As John prepared a salad to go with the steak Cameron was grilling, he coughed in a stagey way to attract her attention over the sound of the beef sizzling, then realized once more that such things were unnecessary.

"Thanks for covering for me back there," he said.

Cameron looked confused.

"The misunderstanding, when we went in the door, you know? I thought he was gonna shoot us..."

"Ah, the _misunderstanding_," she said archly.

"Yes, the misunderstanding," John said, trying to sound casual.

"_No problemo_," Cameron said cheerfully.

After a long pause, John continued. "Why did you? Cover for me, I mean. Is it part of your mission? Your programming?"

"No, it's not. I just thought that you'd be embarrassed if it was revealed how much you care for me, especially in front of them."

"Who says I care for you?"

Cameron raised one eyebrow slightly. She chose her words and tone carefully. "Because you do. You wouldn't have done it if you didn't care," she said softly.

"Hmm, well... erm..." John trailed off. He had no answer to her logic. Again. He wandered over to the couch, where he kept himself occupied by surfing TV channels.

Cameron noted that John hadn't flown off into a rage this time, unlike on so many occasions before.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

John was lying in bed, unable to sleep. The man he'd met that day was a Reese. Was he a relative, one he'd never heard of? How could he raise the subject without alerting Cameron's suspicions? As it turned out, he needn't have worried on that score.

"Something is troubling you," she said from her position next to him. She lay, as usual, fully clothed on the outside of the covers. They'd long since given up the pretense that she remained in her own room at nights.

"Yeah," he agreed, turning to look at her. "That guy, Reese: what's his beef? I mean, he treated me, and you, like we're nothing..."

"You, that is, Future-You, sent his brother Kyle on a mission from which he did not return. Until he was assigned this mission, he did not know what had happened to him; he certainly seemed to bear John Connor a grudge."

"And yet he accepted the mission to come back himself."

"Yes. Perhaps he wants to find out what happened to Kyle?"

"Well, I can tell him: he died." John inhaled deeply, then crossed one ankle over the other and placed his hands behind his head. "You knew Derek in the future?"

"Yes, briefly. When he was brought to your headquarters, he tried to shoot me, then I saved him from a rogue reprogrammed Triple-Eight."

"Oh?"

"Yes. He wasn't at all grateful."

"Oh. Well, I'll be sure to raise that with him, _when_ I finally become John Connor."

"Are you fooling with me?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**Thursday, September 13th 2007.**_

Cameron had arranged another meet with the Resistance fighter cell, to see how much progress had been made. She hoped the meeting would go better than the first one. She'd made the appointment for an hour after their shift ended at work, to allow plenty of time in case of traffic hold-ups, which was fortunate, because a three-car pile up delayed them, much to John's annoyance. He again broached the subject of getting a newer, more comfortable vehicle. Cameron offered to steal one. He declined the offer, wondering aloud how much longer it would take to save the money for one. Cameron kept silent. She was unable to answer the question without knowing exactly which car he wanted. Previous discussions on the subject had ended in John losing his temper, something she viewed as pointless, but still something to avoid.

As they approached the apartment, John paused in the hallway. "Something feel off to you?" he asked, drawing his gun.

"I detect no signs of life from within. We should go, John."

"Maybe. Let's take a look first." He approached the door, and pushed it slightly. "Not locked," he whispered.

Cameron gently pushed him to the side. "Wait here, please?" She added a half-smile to her request. John reluctantly nodded his acceptance.

Drawing her sidearm, she pushed the door fully open, then rushed in, quickly stepping to the right, aiming her gun in a sweep of the room. She saw four bodies on the floor. Thermal imaging scans suggested that they had been dead for some time, although one seemed to be warmer than the others. She switched to her infra-red spectrum as a precaution, which revealed him to be a T-Triple-Eight variant cyborg.

She slid her gun back in her waist band and quietly moved closer. He had still not moved, so she aimed a powerful kick into his neck, hoping to dislodge his head as well as shock his chip's mounting. The kick caught him by surprise and he was hurled across the room, stopped only by the solid outer wall. He appeared to be undamaged as he rose and advanced on his smaller attacker. He attempted to land a punch to her head, but she ducked, grabbed him, then spun him around, using his own momentum to propel him through the sheetrock interior wall into what appeared to be the bedroom area, where he fell upon a couple of sleeping bags.

Before he could rise, she was on him, raining powerful blows around his chip port and visual sensors. He managed to parry a blow, then another, then he had her by the wrists. Twisting, he lifted her up and, despite the kicks she landed successfully on his torso, he hurled her through the remaining piece of sheetrock. Cameron landed on the apartment's only table, a wooden rectangular item that fared no better in its impact with her body than the folding one had with John's fist the month before. The Triple-Eight was on her before she could recover, and again threw her the length of the room. She managed to land better this time and was ready for him, side-stepping at the last second to force him into the brick wall, using his own mass and speed to propel him face-first through the small plaster coating into the underlying structure. As expected, it had little effect beyond cosmetic damage.

For over a minute they circled each other, sizing one another up. The Triple-Eight could only identify her as an unknown type of cyborg. Defeating her was not critical to his mission, therefore evasion was decided to be the best course of action. Cameron however, had other plans. They set-to in a battle reminiscent of armored warriors from centuries past, the clank of metal on metal reverberating throughout the apartment block.

From his position in the hallway outside, John could not contain his worry at the sudden silence. Just seconds before they resumed hostilities, he charged into the room, his gun held out somewhat redundantly, unsure what he might find, trying not to think of what damage Cameron might have taken. He saw the two terminators going at it hammer-and-tongs, but Cameron seemed to be holding her own. With a deft sweep, she upended the larger cyborg. She had one knee under her opponent's chin, and struck another punch on his right eye. He grabbed the shin on his chest with one hand, her jacket with his other, and lifted her off him, managing to fling her away. He rose and evaluated the threat John presently posed: '_None'_ was his assessment, but assuming him to be part of the Resistance cell, he moved towards him, '_Terminate'_ being the decided course of action.

He was intercepted by Cameron, who hit him low in the midriff with her shoulder, lifting him off his feet. Encircling him with her arms, she continued on through one of the apartment's half-open windows, taking the Triple-Eight well away from John, spraying glass and bits of broken wood over the old cast iron fire escape outside. The two cyborgs seemed to fly over the narrow alleyway, hitting the building opposite so hard the mortar cracked around several bricks, loosening them. Cameron managed to turn such that the Triple-Eight took the full force of their landing on the ground, while she rolled off him. Despite this, he was quicker to rise and set off at a fast pace down the alley. Cameron, though lighter and nimbler, was unable to gain ground on him. By taking them out of the apartment, she had provided him with the opportunity to escape, which he made the most of.

The Triple-Eight made it to a main road, sprinting to the other side. As Cameron followed, she was struck by a passing car, which braked heavily on impact. The shocked driver and passenger stared at her over their rapidly deflating air-bags, her head having gone through their windshield.

"Keep calm, there is no need to panic," she advised them. As an afterthought, she flashed a quick smile at them as further reassurance, then stood up on the hood of their totaled automobile. There was no sign of the Triple-Eight in any direction, so she jumped down and ran back to the Resistance safe house.

Once she had reached the alley below it she found John behind the wheel of their truck, the engine running. She climbed in. "The police will likely be here soon. We should leave," she stated coolly.

John looked at her. She had cuts and bruises all over her face and hands; odd pieces of plaster, glass and wood splinters in her hair; her jacket and jeans were ripped and torn, more blood clearly evident on the latter. "What happened back there? You look like hell!"

Cameron looked at him. "You really do know how to make a girl feel special, John," she said, smiling cheerfully. Abruptly the smile vanished. "Drive!" she ordered.

John swallowed, then looked to the front and did as he was told. "I was... It kinda got all quiet in there after the crashing and... Whatever; I thought maybe you were knocked out or something..."

"John."

He turned briefly to see that she was looking intently at him.

"You must never come after me like that. That was a Triple-Eight; he could have rendered me offline, or terminated me: you would not have known. You could have been killed. Do not do that again. Just run away," she said coldly.

John gritted his teeth, breathing heavily, trying to concentrate on driving, grateful for the fairly quiet traffic.

Cameron reached out to him. "Please?" she added, more warmly.

John nodded a few times, but did not see the pleading look upon his bodyguard's face as he grimly advanced down the road.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

Back in their apartment, John concluded his call to Derek Reese. Having informed him about the fate of his men, he'd told him to go to a safe house they'd set up some months before in Van Nuys, and await instructions. He knew they'd have to drive over there to let Derek in, a task he wearily accepted was necessary, but they'd keep it brief. _Maybe Cameron could do the job by herself?_ First however, some essential chores needed completing.

Cameron was sitting at the kitchen table clad in just her underwear, while her jeans soaked in the bathtub, waiting upon her assessment as to their future viability. She had brushed all the detritus out of her hair, then pinned it up; washing and conditioning it could wait. She positioned a small vanity mirror on the table and did a rapid appraisal of her facial damage. She was ready to start removing the embedded glass and wood fragments when John took the tweezers from her.

"Let me," he offered, drawing up another chair.

She was about to refuse, but then realized that she had let him take the tweezers out of her hand without either resisting or noticing it: a worrisome detail. Perhaps her chip had taken more damage, if she was reacting autonomously? She analyzed her video and audio record while John set about dispatching the foreign objects tarnishing her skin. Once they were all out, he wiped her face clean of all the blood and dirt, using gentle sweeps with the cotton-wool, delicately infusing the cuts with disinfectant then scooping up any excess that trickled down her cheeks. Her analysis had started to include what he was doing at that moment, what she felt him doing.

"It's all right, John. You don't have to hold back; you won't hurt me," she said.

He ignored her, not quite believing that he wouldn't do more harm than good if he was too rough, despite the fact that she didn't flinch once.

"I don't think you'll need stitches here, but maybe on your back... How long does it take to heal? A couple days, right?" John stood up, and looked down on her back, taking in the bumps her artificial spine and shoulder blades made in her synthetic skin, the metal clearly showing through the scraped and torn areas.

She turned her head slightly. "A couple of days should be enough to cover the breaches in the epidermal layer. The scarring takes a few more, but I've had worse."

"Back in New Mexico?"

"Yes."

"I never thanked you for that: taking the bullets and giving me the chance to get away."

She stood up and faced him. "It's okay. That's what I'm here for. Here and now," she said, though her voice trailed off into a whisper.

John looked down at the cotton swabs in his hands, then at Cameron, standing inches away in her mismatched underwear, seemingly breathing as heavily as him. Something deep within his consciousness was screaming at her to rip his shirt off and smother him with kisses. _Where did that come from?_ From that moment when he first saw her: _In that crappy old diner in a crumbling desert town, that was it._ _But she's off-limits, don't need Derek freaking Reese to tell me that._

Cameron looked closely at him, noticing his breathing get faster, his heart rate speed up, his pupils dilate. His lips parted slightly in anticipation, his head moved an inch or so closer, and she responded by turning hers a fraction, making the angle just right...

"Um, I'll stitch your back now, if you want?" he said, before clearing his throat.

There was a pause before Cameron responded. "Of course," she said, smiling briefly. She turned her back to him, but looked at John over her left shoulder.

He had to tear his eyes away from hers, but focused on the job he had set himself, performing some neat surgical sutures. When he'd finished, he gathered all the equipment back into the first aid box, then picked up her black tee-shirt from the floor, where it had fallen or been discarded.

Surveying his handy work in the mirror, Cameron congratulated him. "You have been taught well. This is useful practice for you, but with me, you don't have to worry about being so precise as my flesh will repair anyway. However, you may be called upon to perform this on humans, where greater finesse would likely be essential."

"Yes. Thank you. Listen, what about work tomorrow? You gonna be okay?"

"The marks on my face will heal enough to be covered effectively with makeup."

"Okay, but what about the rest of you? I mean, you went out the window... What about your right shoulder? You said a while back it might not take another blow."

She rolled it, whilst simultaneously running an internal systems scan. "It seems to be functional. Perhaps I was over-stating the problem."

"It's all right, Cameron. You don't need to hold back with the technical stuff. If you need fixing, I'll help you."

She smiled at him. "Thank you. It will be valuable experience for you."

"Uh, yeah..."

Something had been about to happen, but it didn't. John wasn't sure if it made him pleased with his self-control or sad at his self-denial. Cameron wondered why John had backed away from his intention to kiss her. Assuming that he was still undecided about her, she had subsequently responded in a businesslike fashion, yet he seemed to be deliberating still. She felt it was worth occasionally probing John's intentions towards her, but had decided after a few errors of judgment that a more subtle approach would be best. Subtlety was not her strong point; however it was a challenge for her infiltration skills, therefore a worthy tactic.

"What do we do now?" Cameron asked.

"I don't know," John said, looking deep into her eyes. After a moment or two he handed her the torn and bloody tee-shirt. "I think that's seen better days."

Cameron took it with a smile, then looked at it. "Yes, it has."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**Friday, September 14th 2007.**_

Another boring Friday night was spent at home, watching the television; in mitigation, it had been a busy and tiring week, for John at least. He hadn't argued when she'd beckoned him to rest his head on her lap, as she lounged upon the couch; didn't fuss when she twiddled with his hair, apparently absentmindedly.

Cameron asked John why he hadn't contacted Charley Dixon. He had told her about him some while back: about the six months they had spent as a family, before a nightmare drove his mother to uproot them from Nebraska for the supposedly safer climes of New Mexico. The use of Charley's nickname for him by the girl Fay from the gas station had annoyed Cameron, because John had told her in no uncertain terms that he was not to be called '_Johnny_,' after she had attempted a new tack in her efforts to forge a better relationship with the future general.

"He reminds me of Mom. They were real happy times, but it kinda ended badly. I dunno what happened to him, but I don't think he'd wanna see me any time soon."

"I see," she said, continuing her movements over his scalp. They were light and delicate caresses, and seemingly not at all troubling to John.

"I hope things worked out for him, he was one of the good guys; one of the best," he said, yawning. The gentle stimulation of his head and the soporific nature of the show he was attempting to watch, combined with his general fatigue, meant that before long he was sound asleep. Cameron carried him to his bed soon after.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**Saturday, September 15th 2007.**_

Early the next morning, Cameron snuck out of John's room and looked up Charley Dixon on the internet. A _Los Angeles Sun_ news report on his outstanding bravery in a rescue revealed that he had been working as an EMT in L.A. in May of 2004. An hour spent hacking a few databases of registered voters, utility companies and licensed medical professionals turned up the facts that Charley Dixon was not only resident in Sherman Oaks, but that he was married, to a nurse named Michelle.

As she was closing the lid of their laptop, John shuffled out of his room, yawning.

"Wassup?" he said.

"Nothing. Just playing Solitaire," she replied.

John frowned momentarily, then shrugged before carrying on into the bathroom for his regular morning pit stop.

Cameron came to the door and knocked. "I'm just going down to the store to get some milk; this one's gone off," she said. She'd just poured a half-pint down the sink.

"Okay," he called back. "I'm gonna shower."

"Okay. Don't answer the door to any strange men. Or terminators."

"Ha. Ha," he replied flatly, but she could hear him chuckling immediately after.

Having purchased a new carton of fresh milk, Cameron paused outside the store to dial a number on her cell phone. A woman's voice answered on the fifth ring.

"Hello, is that Michelle Dixon?"

"Who wants to know?"

"Cameron Phillips."

"Are you a law firm? Or selling air-conditioning? 'Cause we don't need any, thanks. Good day."

Cameron frowned at her cell, aware that the line had been cut, but unsure why. She replayed the conversation, taking note of intonation. _Ah!_ She redialed the number.

"Yes?" came the weary reply.

"Mrs Dixon? Please don't hang up. My boyfriend is John Reese – he knew your husband in Nebraska, and I think he'd like to see him again."

"You _think?_"

"Yes. I haven't mentioned it to him yet. I figured if I got in touch with you, it would be your decision; well, yours and Mr Dixon's. If he doesn't want to see John again, I'll understand, there will be no more contact."

There were long seconds with no reply forthcoming: twenty-seven to be precise. Cameron decided that in another thirteen seconds she would repeat her question. Before then however, Michelle broke the impasse.

"John Reese? You mean John _Connor_, Sarah Connor's son?"

"Yes."

"You know about her?"

"Yes, but John was just a boy back then; he was cleared by the Feds, given a new identity. He has a steady job, we live in North Hills now. But he still loves and respects Mr Dixon, like a father."

After another pause, Michelle Dixon spoke. "Okay, I'll put it to him. Give me your number, we'll take it from there."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

Later that day, John climbed into the driver's seat of the truck. They had spent the day at Santa Monica pier for no obvious reason, other than to have a day out. When he'd asked Cameron if it held any strategic importance in the future, she'd shaken her head: _"Nope." _She declined to tell him that dead Resistance leaders were lashed to the Ferris wheel as a grim warning for humans not to bother fighting Skynet.

It was a day for people-watching and answering her questions about those odd things humans did when they had nothing important to do. They'd shared an interesting Thai meal and an ice-cream, but with the long drive home and the fact that they weren't really a couple, in the way that others around them were, John had decided to call time on the jaunt.

As she slid her bottom onto the bench seat, her cell phone trilled loudly. She pulled it out, and flipped it open. "Hello."

After listening for less than a minute, she spoke again. "Okay, that'd be perfect; looking forward to it. Bye," Cameron said brightly. She terminated the call, snapping her cell shut.

"Looking forward to what?" John asked.

"Nothing," Cameron said, smiling enigmatically.

"Can't be nothing: you don't just do _'nothing,'_ ever. And you smiled, so I know you're hiding something. What gives, huh?"

Cameron chewed her lip. "It's a surprise; I don't want to spoil it. Do you?"

John shook his head in disbelief. "You're full of surprises, Phillips. What's one more, right?"

Cameron said nothing, but shrugged and smiled meekly back.

John snorted. "I dunno why I keep you around..."

"Because no-one else would put up with you?" she ventured.

John glanced at her, then looked to check the road was clear, before pulling away from the curb. "There is that," he acknowledged, chuckling quietly.

Cameron smirked to herself, looking out of her window. Soon they were making sedate progress on the 405 toward home. A pale blue '67 Volkswagen squareback, bearing a surfboard on its roof, cruised by. A woman's bare leg protruded from the passenger window, her toes curling and wriggling in the warm evening air. _I wonder what that feels like?_ Cameron decided that she would find out for herself, and pulled her boots and socks off, before emulating the unknown girl.

Sneaking the odd glance at her playful yet graceful antics, John was intrigued by her. She smiled when she caught him looking, but said nothing. _She's happy_, he decided. And he found that now he was too.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

They'd only just crossed the threshold when John's cell rang. "Yeah?"

He put his hand over the mouth piece. "Reese wants to know if the safe was touched," he said.

"I didn't see one. Let me check my visual records." After a short pause she shook her head.

"Cameron didn't see anything. I got the guns, files and maps; everything I could sweep into a backpack, but I hightailed it outta there before I heard any sirens." After listening to Derek for a further minute, he continued, "_No_, no phones or papers. The cops'll likely have them... Right. We'll pick you up then." He ended the call.

"I'll get the torches and gloves," Cameron said.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

They pulled up once again in the alley below the seedy apartment in Pico, Derek uncomfortably squeezed on the bench seat between John and Cameron, who had driven. This time they made their way up the fire escape. At the top Cameron forced a sliding window open and stepped into the room. The broken window had not yet been repaired, but now sported official Police yellow tape across it, to deter casual visitors. The bodies had been removed along with any belongings John had left, such as sleeping bags. She shone her torch around the room for the benefit of the others.

"Where's the safe?" she asked.

"You're so clever, you tell me," Derek replied.

"We haven't got time for this," John said, but something in the sweep of Cameron's beam caught his attention. "Wait... over there!" He shone his own torch on a poster of a kitten in a tree, hanging on for dear life. Cameron ripped it off, revealing a metal door with a handle and a numerical keypad.

"What's the combination?" John asked.

"It's quicker for her to just pull the door off," Reese said.

"Hardly," John said, but motioned for Cameron to do just that.

She reached for the handle, but when she touched it sparks flew as she was hit with a surge of electricity, hurling her backwards onto the floor. Derek crouched by her head, a hunting knife at the ready. John kicked it from his hand.

"Back off, Reese!"

"She'll only be out for a short time: we have to get her chip out!"

"No, we don't. Now open the safe, and get the stuff we came for. We can't hang around; that short-out is gonna attract someone's attention."

Reese reluctantly opened the safe, and dragged its contents into the backpack Connor had thrust into his hands.

John knelt down by Cameron's face, waiting for her to revive. She'd told him that they took two minutes to reboot; unfortunately well before that time was up he heard dogs barking. He glanced at Derek: he too knew what that could signify. John waved the older man over, to help him lift Cameron's dead weight towards the fire escape. Instead, Reese guided her body into the wheeled wooden chair. Then, before John could react, he pushed the chair in the direction of the broken window, hurling a still inactive Cameron out of it for the second time that week, on this occasion landing on the roof of an old automobile. John shot him a look, but vaulted out of the other window onto the fire escape, half-leaping, half-sliding down the stairs. As he reached the bottom, Cameron finally sprang back into life, and they ran for their parked truck. John started the engine and moved away briskly, forcing Derek to lunge for the truck's bed; he barely managed to roll in to it.

When they got to the safe house, John followed Derek inside, but indicated for Cameron to wait in the truck.

John made a show of wiping his brow. "Boy, that was close! We just about got away," he said, shaking his head ruefully.

"Yeah!" agreed Derek.

"What's in the backpack then?" John said, moving closer.

"Money, diamon–" Derek was cut short by John's steel toe-capped boot crashing into his groin. He collapsed in great pain on to the cold, hard concrete floor, clutching himself.

"Don't ever pull a stunt like that again, you hear?" John Connor said, grabbing Reese's collar. "Got it?"

"Got it," Derek croaked, blinking back the tears of pain.

"Stay here, don't move. I'll call when we get your new papers." He picked up the backpack and went outside, slamming the front door. John joined Cameron in the truck.

"Are you okay?" he asked gently, no sign of anger evident in his voice.

"Yes, I'm fine. Thank you for asking," Cameron said, studying him carefully.

"Really?"

"Yes, really." She smiled slightly to reassure John.

"Okay." He took a deep breath and let it out noisily.

"How about you?" Cameron asked.

"Yeah, I'm okay."

"I heard some strange noises in there."

"It was nothing."

"Didn't sound like _'nothing'_ to me."

"Derek's genitals got up close and personal with my boot."

Cameron mulled that over. "It would appear that Derek Reese does not have balls of steel."

"Not now, no."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**NEXT: Chapter Eight **– Do You Want The Truth Or Something Beautiful?_

_In which John & Cameron catch up with some old friends and talk about love and stuff._


	8. Eight

**Chapter Eight: Do You Want The Truth Or Something Beautiful?**

_**Los Angeles: Sunday, September 16th 2007.**_

After a typically 'lazy Sunday' start to the day, John Connor was ready to go by mid-morning. He and Cameron Phillips stepped out from their apartment block and headed toward her old Ford truck, parked as usual at the nearest curb. John shielded his eyes and looked skyward.

"Looks like being a nice day," he said.

"The forecast predicted sunny, with a high of thirty degrees," Cameron stated.

John paused before getting in. "What's that in English?"

Cameron frowned. "That was in English," she replied.

"I meant in Fahrenheit, not Celsius," John clarified.

"Oh." Cameron smiled briefly, then climbed behind the wheel. John followed her into the cab, urging her to answer his question. "Eighty-six degrees," she said.

"Okay... hot enough."

"Hot enough for what?" Cameron asked, keying the ignition.

John rolled his eyes. "It's just a saying."

Cameron allowed herself a small sigh, then pulled away into the traffic.

"What?" John said, staring at her.

"Nothing," she said, adopting a blank expression. John knew he'd get nothing further from her, so shifted his gaze outside.

After stopping at a bodega to collect a box of essential provisions for Derek Reese, they met up with him at their Van Nuys safe house, a small-scale, single story disused warehouse, the final one of several in a block. While Cameron placed the groceries on a workbench situated next to the tiny office section, John spoke to the man who seemed to be his uncle.

"We brought you this new stuff, rather than use up the stock here; should we ever need it, we'll want this place to be fully stocked. Right now, we can afford the time and money, and I'm sure the fresh food will do you more good," he said amiably.

"Not sure it will help my nuts," Derek grumbled. His hands lowered reflexively to cover his still tender groin.

"No? Well, following my advice might be the best course of action, where your nuts are concerned, huh?" John said icily. The two men looked at each other warily, before Derek indicated his acknowledgment. "Okay," John resumed. "I was thinking you're gonna need a new ID because the cops have your team's cell phones and papers. There'll be some link to you, so we'd better get on it. Can I see?"

Derek handed over his documents. John gave them a cursory examination, but quickly realized that Cameron could do a better job, so passed them to her. She scanned Derek's papers thoroughly.

"These wouldn't stand up to much scrutiny. One of your men was supposed to be able to do perfect forgeries," she said.

Derek shrugged. "Is that what Connor told you?"

"Yes."

"Maybe he lied."

"Maybe you lied to him," she countered.

"Oh? What about?" Derek said, squaring his shoulders.

"About what your team was capable of," Cameron said, taking a half pace toward the Resistance man.

The air was thick with tension, so John decided it was time to leave. "Look, I think I know someone, from the old days. I'll track him down; we'll get you new papers, but it'll take time, so just keep out of trouble. This food should be enough, right?"

"I'm used to getting by on scraps," Derek said.

John nodded thoughtfully. He saw the unrolled sleeping bag on the floor of the office. "Okay. Could take a week."

"I'll survive."

"Okay. Don't use the phone, unless it's an emergency. We'll all need to get new ones, as our numbers will be in the ones the cops took."

Outside, back in the truck, Cameron pointed out that finding someone rarely took more than a day, using the internet.

"True, but I want him to suffer a bit longer," John said.

"That seems cruel."

"Yeah? Well, I've gotta establish myself as the leader of this gang, right?" Cameron acknowledged with a positive nod. "If I let him walk all over me, how am I ever gonna get to be the savior of mankind?" he elaborated. She felt that this query didn't require any reply from her, and John clearly felt the same as he didn't wait for one. "Anyway, we'll get on it right away; just wasn't going to tell Reese that. One thing: is the photo of him from his papers gonna be re-usable?"

"Yes."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**Monday, September 17th 2007.**_

After another routine, boring day at work, John and Cameron made their way to the residence of Sarah Connor's former comrade-in-arms, Enrique Salceda.

Cameron watched as John and Enrique indulged in mutual hugging and back-slapping, just as he had done with his other confederate, Raul. Did they have a need to touch, to be close, like she did with John? She had determined overt touching to be a mostly feminine trait amongst humans, at least when it came to delicacy: gentle touches signified an intimacy between two people, and were usually conducted privately. Publicly, men would happily hold hands with women, but when it came to other men, they seemed to cover up any potential embarrassment with macho bravado.

"So sorry to hear about your mother: a truly wonderful woman, she was," Enrique said, then swept his arm out, in another grand gesture. "So, this is your woman, John?"

"Er... kinda," John replied noncommittally.

Enrique turned to Cameron. "Did you know his mother?"

"No."

Enrique smiled conspiratorially. "Hmm. If you did, you wouldn't tell me, I know, _eh?_" He turned back to John. "She is like Sarah Connor: a good face for poker, _no?_"

"I guess."

Cameron continued her close observation of the two men. It was informative to see John with someone from what he called _'the old days.'_ He was busy trying to ensure that Enrique didn't treat him like the little boy he had been when last they met. His manner was friendly but businesslike, while soliciting his sometime acquaintance to supply them with a new set of documents.

Enrique Salceda evidently was a man who liked to boast that he had seen and done much in his time. His face bore the evidence of a life of danger and excess, despite the neatly trimmed beard; his hairline was in retreat, yet what remained was gray and carefully styled. His floral-patterned shirt was in what John termed the _'old school Hawaiian'_ style. Cameron doubted that he surfed or did the hula much.

He regaled the couple with an elaborate story of why he 'regrettably' could no longer furnish them with forged papers; nevertheless he supplied the whereabouts of his nephew Carlos, who had apparently taken over the running of the family business. Retirement had brought the onetime outlaw a comfortable existence in a tidy home. _His life of crime has surely been lucrative. Unless he has secured an additional pension? _Cameron pondered. She didn't voice her concerns with John, though, deciding that this was one of those times when discretion was the best course of action.

She laughed along with Señor Salceda when he said something that he deemed to be hilarious, though it was not as funny as any of John's jokes. She knew this because John didn't laugh, and he always laughed at his own jokes.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**Tuesday, September 18th 2007.**_

As luck would have it, Tuesday was a very quiet day at the parcel depot, meaning that they got away more than an hour early, and so headed straight for Enrique's nephew's house.

Typically for one of his age and status, he kept a pair of fierce fighting dogs as protection, in addition to an assortment of mustachioed and tattooed henchmen. The dogs snarled and barked at Cameron, forcing John to ask her to wait outside. Rather than cause a scene by terminating the canines, and possibly their handlers too, Cameron reluctantly acquiesced. She hung around with the girlfriend of Carlos Salceda, observing her for any possible traits she might be able to use in a future mission, though not engaging her in conversation.

Before John could conclude his business, an LAPD black-and-white patrol car pulled up in the street; its driver approached the two females. He appeared to know Carlos' girlfriend, who silently made herself scarce, so the lone cop turned to Cameron.

"This your truck?" he inquired casually.

"Yes."

"What you doing here?"

"Waiting for my boyfriend."

"And what's he doing?"

"Watching soccer with an old school buddy. We don't got cable, so the B.F. can't watch it at home; gotta come here," she said. "It's like, totally boring."

"I see. That why you aren't in there too?"

"No: the dogs. They were humping my leg: so not cool. Totally. But you know, my guy's gonna score tonight, even if his team loses," she said with a wink.

"_Riiiight_... So, what's in the box?" the cop said, looking in the truck's bed.

"That's the dirty laundry – the whole week's worth. I just got off my period, it was pretty bad – I suffered a lot, I can tell you; some pretty big flow. Can't decide whether to take it to the laundrette or the incinerator. You're welcome to check it out though, if that's your thing."

The cop made a face. "Er, no, I'll pass on that. But maybe you oughtta be more careful where you hang out: this is gang territory."

"Really? You think they're gonna kidnap me for the white slave trade?" Cameron asked, taking a more innocent look and tone, naïve sincerity oozing from her.

"Er, _no_."

Cameron shrugged. "Good." She turned as John exited the house, and called to him. "Hey babe! Did your team win?" She signaled to him, out of sight of the cop.

John caught the gesture: _'Play along,'_ and noted the cop. "Sure, they always win."

"Then I got an extra prize for you, when we get home!" She put her arm around him, and he did likewise with her.

"Can't wait," he said, grinning. He turned to the cop. "Anything I can help you with, Officer?"

"No, you can be on your way."

"Sure, thanks."

They got in the truck; John started the engine. When he had driven a couple of blocks, he spoke. "Price has gone up a lot in ten years. He wants eight grand."

"Did you ask for a discount? For old times' sake?"

"Yes, I asked for a discount."

"Hmm. I'd have gotten one."

"No, you'd have broken his fingers. Which isn't good news for a forger."

"I can be subtle."

"Yeah?"

"Sometimes, if the mission calls for it."

"Right. It's still eight grand."

"We don't have that much."

"Maybe we need to sell some of Derek's diamond stash."

"You've been reluctant to deal in any criminal activity."

"Yeah, and I hope this doesn't come back and bite me in the ass." After a pause to reflect, John continued, "Call Derek, find out where he is. Maybe he knows a good place we can sell them."

"I'll make sure we get a good price."

John slowed to halt at a red light. "A place we can go back to, if we need to sell the rest."

"You don't have much faith in me," she said, looking out the window, away from him.

John looked at her, trying to work out if she was really hurt; she certainly sounded it. "I do, I just wanna explore all the options. If we ever need strong-arm tactics, feel free. Okay?"

"Okay."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**Friday, September 21st 2007.**_

While John cemented his ties with Carlos and paid for the new papers, which Cameron had declared to be _'flawless,'_ she allowed herself to be given a make-over by the chola. In the truck, on the way home, John couldn't help commenting.

"I see you spent your time wisely," he said.

"Do you like this look on me?" Cameron asked.

"Honestly?"

"You don't have to spare my feelings: I don't have any, remember?"

"_Riiight!_ So why ask?"

"You don't like it."

"I didn't say that."

"You avoided answering the question; that tells me everything."

"_Right_... Listen, you hear what Carlos said about Enrique?"

"He said he was an informer," Cameron replied.

"A snitch, yeah."

"Maybe that is how he could afford to retire?"

"Yeah."

"We should pay him another visit."

"Yeah."

"But first, we have somewhere else we have to be."

"_Yeah?_"

"Yes." Cameron stopped herself from asking John if anyone had ever told him _he_ was a great conversationalist.

They went home, for a quick change of attire and for Cameron to adjust her makeup. Soon, they were back on the road.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

The truck eased to a halt outside a pastel yellow timber-clad house. The front lawn looked neatly-tended and green, the plants lush, the small trees vibrant. An old but well-maintained mid-blue Mercedes sedan was parked in front of the garage.

"Okay, I'm still waiting," John said, an edge of irritation creeping into his voice.

"Patience. Just one more minute, and all will be revealed," Cameron replied. She indicated for them to exit the Ford.

They strolled up to the front door, wearing their best outfits. John had reluctantly donned the chinos and oxford shirt, freshly pressed by Cameron, who wore her green button-through. Although she didn't anticipate any problems at this location, as a precaution she had tucked her favorite Glock into a simple leather purse, slung over her shoulder, just as she had circled the neighborhood twice before coming to a halt outside 8223 Paper Street, Sherman Oaks. She took John's left hand in her right. "I told them you're my boyfriend," she said.

"Oh," he said. "Okay." _Just play along, _he thought.

"Ring the bell," she instructed. John complied using his free hand.

The door opened after a short delay. For the first time in eight years, Charley Dixon and John Connor stood face to face, but not for long. John glanced quickly to his left, smiling at Cameron. He gave her hand a quick squeeze, then moved into the welcoming embrace offered by the older man. They held each other for some time, before Michelle Dixon appeared behind her husband.

"Are you gonna keep these two standing out on the porch all night, or you gonna invite them inside?" she said pleasantly.

The two men broke apart, emotion evident upon both their faces.

"Yeah, sorry. Come on in, Johnny. And... it's Cameron, right?"

"Yes."

After the formal introductions, the two couples sat down in the living room. John was worried about Cameron's ability to make small-talk, but once more she impressed him with her knowledge of matters both serious and trivial as pertaining to the city, the medical profession and modern culture. He figured it must be all that time she spent scouring the internet and other media for potential signs of Skynet or Resistance activity; hard not to take in the stories the rest of the world was talking about, when you have a neural network for a brain. She could produce relevant data faster than a teenage gossip addict in a shopping mall, but without sounding so dense.

All through dinner, Charley and John had been talking motorcycles; Charley wanted to show John the collection of bits of bike he had stashed in the shed in his back yard, ready for a rebuild he intended to do _'some day.'_

"Let's do it!" John said, then hastily looked to Charley's wife for approval. Cameron offered to do the dishes with Michelle, leaving space for the men to have some alone-time.

Michelle sighed. Looking out the kitchen window, she could see the two men were sitting on a wooden bench, passing what looked like engine parts back and forth. "Boys! They sure do love their machines, don't they, huh?" she said.

Cameron followed her gaze. "They sure do," she agreed, a wistful smile on her face.

Charley had noticed that John kept glancing back towards the house.

"You like her then?" he asked, taking the polished cylinder off his erstwhile son.

"Like? As in _like_, like? Sure, I like her. She's good company, keeps me straight. She found the apartment, got us jobs; she feeds me, washes my clothes, makes sure I exercise. What's not to like?"

Charley noted the prevarication, decided to keep probing. "Sounds like you struck gold there, Johnny!"

"Yeah, guess so," he said blithely.

"You guess? She does all that, and she's pretty too; a real pretty girl. Seems to me like you won the lottery, son," Charley declared.

John looked again to the house. He could see that Cameron was alongside Charley's wife. She appeared to be helping with the dishes, but he knew that really she was watching over him; it was what she always did.

"It's more than the way she looks: it's what she does, how she makes me feel. She's... _special_," John said, turning to the man who so nearly became his step-father; who was the only man to ever really be a father to him.

"You love her," Charley said simply, putting a hand on John's shoulder.

John inhaled deeply, then nodded.

"You tell her that?"

"Kinda." He paused to reflect. _Is that the truth?_ "No, not really. It's... difficult."

"I know about difficult, Johnny." He put his other hand on John's other shoulder, forcing them to look each other square in the eye. "But let me tell you, when you find something unique, something _special_, you gotta grab it and hold on; don't let it go. Sometimes you don't get that second chance."

A few minutes later, Cameron brought out a couple of steaming mugs for the two men, then retreated back indoors.

"Your mom would have approved of her," Charley said, sipping his hot coffee.

John gagged, as the coffee went down the wrong hole. When he recovered, he said, "Somehow I doubt it, man!"

"Seriously, she's just what you need: she's strong, she's focused, she makes things happen... and I think she loves you."

"Really? You sure?"

"Aren't you?"

"We don't talk about love. It's..."

"_Difficult?_"

"Yeah..."

John remembered when he'd first mentioned the word: he was drunk, Cameron was getting him out of a Police cell on Christmas Eve. But she'd used it too, a long time after, and it had shaken him to the core. It was what he'd wanted to hear, but nothing could convince him that she truly felt what she'd said that Sunday, back in June...

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**Sunday, June 10th 2007.**_

_John resumed eating his breakfast. "I think I prefer you when you hide in your room and sulk," he grouched._

"_That's not what you say when you're drunk."_

_John twitched. "You don't wanna listen to what men say when they're drunk – alcohol's a depressant."_

"_But it loosens the tongue."_

"_And rots the liver – don't mean it produces the truth. Word only means something when it's said freely, openly and honestly, not obtained by torture or under duress or emotional stress."_

_Cameron contemplated for a while. "Well, I look forward to your word, freely given."_

_John decided it was time to clear the air, though perhaps not in the way she was suggesting. He invited Cameron to sit opposite him._

"_When we spoke about going to the beach, you told me you had everything you wanted."_

"_No, I said I had everything I need."_

"_Right, my mistake. So, I offered you the chance to expand on that, but you didn't take it, then afterward you bitched at me about Fay, like it's any of your goddamn business!"_

"_I didn't think you wanted to hear what I had to say; but I shouldn't have commented on your relationship. For that, I apologize."_

"_Apology accepted. Now tell me what you think I didn't want to hear."_

_There was a long pause while Cameron pondered on the ramifications of what she had to say. Her experience of humans, and John Connor in particular, was that some things were best left unsaid, a conclusion she had come to many times when deciding whether to share with him her secret._

"_Still waiting," he said, impatiently tapping his fingers on the table._

_She looked him in the eye. "I have everything I need: I have you. These women, like Fay, they come and go, but I'll always be here."_

"_And why's that? Because you're programmed to; it means nothing."_

"_Because I love you."_

_John was silent for some time. He got up and paced around the small apartment. It was his turn to ponder on ramifications._

"_Love?" He turned back to her. She smiled at him, attempting to reassure him, but he mistook it for a smirk. Whenever he was conflicted about Cameron, he saw only malice or artifice in her expressions and actions; he could not see her sincerity._

"_You're goddam right I don't wanna hear that crap! You don't know anything about love; you pretend you do, that you have feelings... It's just an act. But you, you're damaged; you can't tell the difference anymore. It's all to do with that clock thing inside: you're out of sync, that damage you took in Red Valley, it's worse than you made out. You thought you were a human for so long, now you wanna act like one. Hey, tell me I'm wrong?"_

_Cameron tried to unravel John's rant. There was no logic to it, and at least one contradiction. She decided not to point out the flaws in his argument. She just reiterated the decision she'd come to about the conundrum that was her relationship with John Connor. She got up and walked over to where he was positioned by the window and stood before him._

"_I don't know about that. Maybe you're right, maybe I'm damaged, but I'm sure about one thing: I do love you, John."_

"_No, don't keep saying that!" John screamed, taking a swing at Cameron. She easily caught his fist, cushioning the blow such that he felt no pain. She looked at his angry hand, held in her much smaller but far more powerful one, then looked him once more in the eye._

"_That was not clever; you would have hurt yourself." She leaned forward and kissed his knuckles delicately. His hand went limp as he unclenched his fist. Cameron released it, and it fell to his side. John looked down at it, as if it were someone else's appendage, but it moved when he willed it to turn. He could see a faint trace of her lip gloss on the knuckles that he had wanted to strike her with._

"_I'm sorry... So very sorry; hitting you... It's..."_

"_Dumb?"_

"_No... Well, yeah, but I mean, hitting a woman, it's not right. My mom would kill me..."_

"_She wouldn't be pleased that you want to fight a terminator?"_

"_I dunno. She'd probably want me to run, I guess. But you... I dunno."_

"_You're upset because you nearly struck a woman?"_

"_Yes."_

"_But I'm not..." Cameron stopped talking when she realized that John knew exactly what he'd done, what she was, everything. Because of what she'd said, he'd gotten angry: angry enough to momentarily forget both what she was and that he shouldn't hit a woman. "I'm sorry that I made you so angry."_

"_Don't apologize; you cared enough to stop me from hurting myself. You could have just let me land one on you, to teach me a lesson."_

"_There are many ways to teach you a lesson, John, but inflicting pain on you is not something I wish to do."_

"_You care. I mean, you've said so before, right?"_

"_Yes, I care."_

"_Is that the same as love?" John wondered. "For a cyborg?"_

"_I think so. I hope so."_

"_But you don't know for sure?"_

"_No, not for sure," she acknowledged, now less certain than before she was faced with John's raw emotion, something she could not hope to experience herself._

"_I don't know either." He inhaled deeply, hoping that some more oxygen would miraculously unravel his conundrum. No such luck. Looking out the window at a less than glamorous Los Angeles vista, the answers he sought eluded him there too. He could only find them within the four walls of the apartment. If the answer really was **'**yes,' the consequences were potentially as bad as if the alternative was given; 'no' would mean disappointment, but life would go on. 'Yes' meant something else: more questions, more potential heartache. "Look, I think it would be best for both of us if we don't talk about love and feelings and stuff. We've got our jobs to do, we've got the training schedule; eventually, we're gonna start on Skynet. I'll go along with whatever you think is necessary for the mission, but I need to focus, right? So, we have to be professional about this partnership."_

"_Like business partners?"_

"_Well, I was thinking more like cops, or army buddies: you got my back, I got yours."_

"_Yes, I see."_

_**# # # # # # # #**_

Well, it had cleared the air, but three months later, he still didn't know; he didn't know anything at all – and he didn't think she did either. But things kept changing, so maybe Charley was right. Maybe they ought to have that talk again. Finding the right time was getting harder now though.

As night fell, John and Cameron said their farewells, promising to _'do it again soon,'_ but at their apartment. John was pleased with his surprise, delighted that Cameron had gone to so much trouble to make him happy, especially in the midst of their current activities. And it had certainly made Charley happy too. That was a bonus – the fact that he had got on with his life, made something more of it, left John more happy than he could say. His fear, that everyone touched by the Connors was cursed in some way, appeared to be groundless.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

Cameron pulled up some two blocks away from Enrique Salceda's residence, in a poorly-lit dead end street. From behind the seats she passed John a change of clothes: boots, jeans, tee-shirt and a hoodie, all in black. She slipped off her shoes and unbuttoned her dress, then began to pull on a similar outfit to John's. Once this task was completed, they walked the rest of the way. She handed John some gloves as they paused by the back door. He decided to pick the lock, rather than have Cameron force the door. She shrugged; more useful practice for him?

John surprised his mother's former ally as he was about to slide between the sheets, confronting Salceda about the allegations made by his nephew. Cameron noted that his night attire was extravagant, like something the wealthy wore in days gone by, or at least those depicted in old movies she'd caught on late-night TV. The elderly man smoothly denied all the charges, then when pressed on the matter, acknowledged that there was some truth in them, but only because of the vile nature of the criminal he had informed upon: the lowest of the low, a child molester.

"He's lying," Cameron said.

Enrique tutted at her, then turned to John. "You trust the word of this _puta_, over mine?"

"Yeah, I do." John got out his gun, and pointed it at the old forger.

"You've known me all your life. How long have you known her, _eh?_"

"Long enough."

"What would your mother say, you holding a gun to my head, in my house?"

"My mother's not here," John said, but his gun lowered fractionally.

Two shots rang out, in quick succession. John turned round slightly, but Cameron was already striding past him, toward where Enrique had fallen. She removed a glove and swiped his neck with her index finger.

"He's dead. We have to leave," she said coldly.

Neither spoke until they reached the truck. John hesitated before climbing in. "I don't understand you anymore. If I ever did."

"He was a threat. It had to be done."

"Did it? _Did __it?_ Is it your decision to make?"

"You weren't prepared to do it."

"Maybe."

"You told me to use strong-arm tactics when necessary. That's what I'm here for, John. Here and now," she said, deliberately echoing her words from before, words spoken in a very different setting, with a very different atmosphere, something not lost on John. He'd allowed himself to forget exactly what she was capable of. He started to walk away.

"Where are we going?" Cameron asked.

John stopped, and looked over his shoulder. "_We_ aren't going anywhere. _I _am going somewhere, and I'm going alone," he said firmly.

"You shouldn't go alone."

"Really? _Really?_ And why not, huh? Look at my so-called team: Derek goes off doing who-knows-what all on his own. Then, when he is with us, he's trying to kill you. But you – you just shoot people who look a bit strange."

"He did not '_look_ _a bit strange._' He was a threat."

"Yeah well, you keep telling yourself that."

"He was a career criminal; sudden death is an occupational hazard," Cameron declared.

John shook his head, a wry smile on his face, but there was no mirth in his voice. "You know, if I'd seen all this on a TV show, I'd find that remark funny. But this is real, and you're serious."

"Yes."

"See, that's where you and me will never agree." He turned and set off briskly again.

"You shouldn't be alone," Cameron said, going after him.

"Yes, I should."

"You'll be alone in the future, why be alone now?"

There was something in her voice, a slight tremble that made John stop in his tracks.

"What?"

"Future-John sent back to the past everyone he cared about. Everyone he loved. He was left alone."

John thought about that. "And then he sent you," he said eventually.

"Yes."

"You can't get much more alone than that."

"No." She held her hand out. "Come home. With me."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**Monday, 24th September 2007.**_

John was drinking a cold beer when something caught his attention on the TV news. "Hey, look at this: some girl's killed herself at school. What a waste!" he sighed.

"Which school?" Cameron asked, walking over from the kitchenette.

"Why do you wanna know?"

She shrugged. "Just curious."

John shrugged too. "Uh, okay... er, Campo something. I didn't really notice."

"Evidently," Cameron muttered. "Campo de Cahuenga High?" she offered.

"Yeah, could be it."

"That's where your friend Raul's nephew goes. His name is Morris, and he gets bullied."

"Yeah?" John didn't pretend to sound interested. He was studying the footage of students placing flowers and keepsakes and notes in a makeshift shrine inside the school.

"Why do they do that?" Cameron asked.

"To remember her, maybe; to express sadness at her passing. If you have all this grief built up inside, I guess it helps get it out. People say it's not good to bottle that up inside."

"Judging by the number of notes, she had a lot of friends."

"Mmm, yeah," John admitted.

"So why was she so unhappy that she took her own life? Where were her friends then?"

John turned to look at the cyborg. Her tone and expression suggested she spoke in earnest. "Good question. I honestly don't know," he replied.

"Humans are strange," Cameron declared, then gave a little sigh, as if there was nothing she could do about it, which in point of fact, there wasn't. And anyway, she was only concerned with one human, and he currently had no suicidal tendencies that she could detect, so she resumed the cleaning of her handgun at the kitchen table.

Derek, who was sitting next to John, also sighed. "What's the fuss? Kids die all the time," he said.

"Not where I come from," John said.

"Where I come from."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

Shortly after 7PM there was a sharp knock at the door of their apartment. Derek made his way into John's bedroom and stationed himself in the closet with Cameron's Heckler & Koch G36, while she used the spyhole to discover that the caller was Special Agent James Ellison of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

"Hello John, long time no see. I've a couple things I wanna run by you, that okay?"

"Sure, man."

Ellison laid out the scenario. "I'm looking into the murder of Enrique Salceda. Someone answering to your description was seen at his house the day before he died. Were you there? Do you know anything about his death?"

John answered truthfully: "I did not kill Enrique." He looked the FBI man in the eye. "He was an old friend of my mother's, back in the day. I wanted to hear some stories about her. I was in a low place, I needed to hear something good. Now you tell me he's dead, I'm feeling down again."

Cameron moved alongside John and put an arm round his waist, apparently offering him emotional support. He put an arm over her shoulders, drawing her closer.

"Seems like a lot of people 'round you end up dead," Ellison observed.

"Well, if you believed Mom, everyone dies for me, eventually," John replied, bitterly.

Ellison ignored the remark, and John's tone; he was used to it. "Thing is, I got a call from him, day you visited. Said he had something for me. Something useful. Before I can meet up with him, he gets himself killed. With the same gun as killed three drug dealers over in Pico. Know anything 'bout _that_, John?"

"No. I work in a parcel depot in Van Nuys, live here; I work out twice a week, go for walks in parks, shopping with my girl on Saturdays." He smiled briefly at Cameron, then turned back to the FBI man. "You know, ordinary stuff. Normal stuff."

Ellison offered his most sincere smile, matching it with a lighter delivery. "No future robots, no guns, no blowing stuff up?"

John faked a chuckle. "That doesn't pay the bills."

"John's done exactly what you asked him to do, Mister Ellison: he's gotten a regular job, settled down, kept his nose clean. He's moved on from the awful events of his past," Cameron said earnestly.

"Hmm, we'll see." Ellison made to leave. He paused as Cameron showed him to the door. "I know you from somewhere, don't I?" he said.

"Crest View High."

"Red Valley? You two were at school together?" He pointed at the pair, his forefinger hovering between them.

"Yes, briefly," Cameron confirmed.

"But you weren't with him, year before last."

"No. We met up again last year, on his birthday."

Ellison nodded. "Okay, well, if I were you, I'd take good care of myself. Death has this habit of following him around."

"So you say; but I can take care of myself, Mister Ellison. And John."

"Hmm, I'll bet."

Cameron closed the front door behind him, but stayed there listening to his footsteps retreating down the stairwell. Presently she moved to the window and observed him climb into his small silver sedan and drive away.

"You did well," John said as he stood behind her, looking over her shoulder.

"Thank you," Cameron replied. "You were good too."

John exhaled noisily. "I'm a born liar," he said. He glanced at the door to his bedroom. "Better get Derek out of the closet before he shoots himself."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**Saturday, September 29th 2007.**_

It was a burning hot day in the desert, not unlike their day at the beach more than three months earlier. This time however, there was no sea breeze to take the edge off the sun's heat. They weren't wearing swim suits either, but Cameron did have an icebox filled with bottles of water, resting alongside John in the shade provided by the faithful F-150.

She returned to John's position after having set up some targets at varying distances. She wore a simple black tank-top over black denims and combat boots. Her Glock was in a holster attached to the belt around her waist, her H&K assault rifle in her right hand, its butt resting on her hip. On her head was her Stetson hat. She stood silently by his side, waiting for him to begin his practice, her eyes sweeping the horizon in all directions.

John went through two full magazines of ammunition, firing at the various targets she had laid out for him, as she called them out.

"Clear," he declared, making his weapon safe.

She scrutinized his accuracy, then he went again, firing on her command.

Further analysis was followed by a debrief; John acknowledged her guidance and got ready for another session, but Cameron decided he needed to rehydrate, so they moved into where the shade now was. John swallowed half a bottle of water greedily, then guiltily offered it to Cameron. She declined with a polite smile.

He thought back to his talk with Charley, and the moratorium he had imposed on Cameron about talking of 'love and stuff.' Things had moved on since then, there had been many developments in their lives; maybe she had changed too.

"When you told me about Fay and her, er... that she was a bit loud, you called it '_love-making_,' right?"

"Yes. I thought 'copulation' too formal, too robotic, and anything else, too colloquial."

"You don't like slang? But you can use it as much as the next person."

"Yes, when it seems suitable. Because that is an area that I am not familiar with through direct experience, I thought using slang terminology might give you the wrong impression."

John slowly sipped the rest of his water and moved a few more pieces of the puzzle around in his head, to see if the picture was any clearer. After some minutes of silence, Cameron asked him why he had brought the subject up.

"Well, something made me think of it recently. Sometimes you can't get something out of your head, so... But, um, mainly because I didn't see it as '_love-making_.' It was just sex."

"And that is not the same?" Cameron was puzzled.

"Well, technically, in a dictionary, yeah. But... um, emotionally, they're chalk and cheese. Well, to me they are."

Cameron remained baffled.

"Sex is just that: you do it 'cause you want it, but it doesn't mean anything. Making love is something you do with someone you love; it's more than just the physical act: it's something more."

"Ah."

"You still don't understand?"

"No, not really," Cameron admitted.

"You recognize love in humans, right?"

"Yes, I can see when people are in love. They do things that otherwise they wouldn't, both good and bad. Also there are some who deny that they are in love, and try to hide it. I am able to identify that behavior too."

"Oh."

"Yes."

"Well, um, personally, I've never been in love, but I kinda assumed that when you make love with someone you really love, who you're in love with, and who loves you back, then it'd be different."

"You find sex unsatisfying?"

"Erm..."

"While you're being so confessional, get it all off your chest," Cameron encouraged. She was quoting a line from a romantic comedy movie she'd watched; she was ninety-nine percent certain John wouldn't have seen it.

"Okay," he said girding himself mentally. Cameron congratulated herself on her supposition. "Not at the time; I guess it's the animal instinct taking over, but not having any connection, any feeling afterward that it matters... I kinda feel empty."

"Shallow?"

"Yeah."

"Vacuous?"

"Hey! I'm opening up here... no need to be insulting."

"I'm sorry, that was not my intention. I merely wanted a clear definition. That is how this conversation started after all: the difference between '_sex_' and '_love-making_,' yes?"

"Yeah, you're right. I'm sorry."

Cameron smiled in acceptance, and perhaps because they had both readily apologized to each other.

"I guess you must find humans confusing at times."

"At times?" Cameron replied, arching an eyebrow.

"Okay, all the time!" John chuckled.

She smiled momentarily, but then grew serious again. "No, not really. And not all humans."

There was some more silence, but for the first time when discussing emotionally-sensitive issues, it was not awkward for John. Cameron seemed to have capabilities beyond what he had thought possible; not a month went by without him discovering another facet of her abilities or personality. _But the big one? Not yet,_ he decided.

"Just because I think it'll be different, doesn't mean it will. It's only my opinion, and it's not like something I discuss with other guys."

"You know you can discuss anything with me, John. I won't judge you."

"Okay, well, I'll bear that in mind."

"Thank you," Cameron said, with all the sincerity she could muster. "Perhaps when you fall in love, you can confirm for me whether your theory is applicable to you or not."

"Um, er... Yeah."

"Now try to hit the bullseyes twenty times," she said, all business again.

He'd fired twice when Cameron stood over him and fired a burst from her assault rifle over his head. He removed his ear defenders and glared at her.

"What the hell? You wanted me to hit twenty, and you go and do this? Even with these," he waved the ear defenders, "that was freaking loud! You trying to put me off or scare the crap outta me?"

"In a real battle, there will be greater distractions than that; you will need to retain your focus regardless," Cameron stated calmly.

John heard her words, heard the words of Sarah Connor. He smiled grimly at Cameron. "You're right, I apologize." He rolled onto his front and replaced the ear defenders, then took up his stance. He looked down the gun-sight at the target, aiming for the bull. He closed his mind to anything but that small spot, then squeezed the trigger.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

On the way home, they stopped at a drive-thru burger joint.

"I think we oughtta get a new car," John said between mouthfuls.

Cameron looked at him, resisting the temptation to roll her eyes.

"Got nothing to say?"

A small sigh escaped. "We have this conversation almost as many times as the one about whether a Big Mac is better than a Whopper."

"Do we? _Really?_ So how many times?"

"Forty-seven against fifty-two."

"How come?"

"Possibly because we are usually in the truck when eating burgers. One thing leads to the other."

"Wow! The way my brain works..."

"Yeah..."

"Huh? What's that supposed to mean?"

"I was agreeing with you."

"Uh-huh – nope! When you agree with me, you just say _yes_. When you're making a snarky comment, you say '_yeah_.'"

"Do I?"

"Yes."

"Busted."

"_Ri-i-ight_... So, er, what about the truck?"

"Are you being serious, or is this another hypothetical discussion."

"Serious. We need some back seat space, a closed trunk, and maybe something from _this_ century."

"Agreed. So what have you narrowed it down to?"

"Definitely not a wagon or mini-van: not really me..."

"So _not_ you, and we have, like, _totally_ gotta worry about your image..."

"I wish you wouldn't do that mall-speak, even if you are, _like_, totally good at it."

"Bodacious."

"That too; you been waiting a while to drop that one into a conversation?"

"Yes."

"I think I made a big mistake in forcing you to watch all those Keanu flicks."

"Totally, dude."

"Don't you have an off-switch?"

"Like the TV?"

"Like Data."

"No."

"So how _do_ I turn you off?"

"Wear the same clothes for a month and don't brush your teeth."

"_Huh?_"

"Think about it."

Cameron got out of the truck to dump the trash in the receptacle on the edge of the parking lot. When she got back John was wagging a finger at her, but grinning. She flashed a quick smile back.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**NEXT: Chapter Nine** – Love And Affection._

_In which our heroes buy a new car, Cameron plays hookey & we discover more about socks than is strictly necessary._


	9. Nine

**Chapter Nine: Love And Affection****.**

_**Los Angeles: Saturday, September 29th 2007.**_

"How do you feel about Derek living with us?"

"Derek? He's hardly ever around, so I guess the answer is: I dunno..."

"Do you ever consider what he is doing when he's not with us?"

"Well, he sure as hell ain't working his nuts off in a parcel depot, that's for sure!"

"Are your nuts loose?"

"Eh, what?" John looked at Cameron, who as usual, was behind the wheel. She had a blank face. _Or not_. He recognized a subtle upturn to the corners of her mouth, a slight crinkle about the eyes. "You're joshing me, right?" Her smile became more obvious. "Damn, twice in one day! You're getting too good at this," he said, then playfully, gently, punched her in the arm. She was soft and squidgy, not unlike a normal person.

She looked at where he had struck and scowled. "Ow. That hurt."

"Really?" John was surprised and concerned.

"I thought you weren't going to hit me anymore," Cameron said, her lower lip moving out a fraction.

"I wasn't. I didn't. I mean, it wasn't like a serious punch, like, er, before. It was just a friendly thing, you know, between friends..."

"Third time's the charm." Cameron's almost-smile had become a definite smirk.

John shook his head repeatedly, but his frown swiftly became a smile again; he thought it best to keep his hands to himself and say nothing, however. _Nothing smarter than a cyborg in overdrive, _he figured_._

"So... if that is something friends do, does that make us friends?" Cameron inquired.

John mused about it, but not for long. "Yeah, it does. We're partners, right? And we hang out, _sorta_, so I guess we're best buds." _Well, that came out alright. I hope. Fingers crossed_.

"Best buds?" Cameron's face bore her unique part-frowning, part-wondering expression.

"Without the beer and football sessions."

"Oh. Should I punch you in the arm now?"

John drew back hastily, smacking his head on the grab handle above the door. "Ow! Er, no... Maybe we should both give that a pass, okay?"

"Okay. Is your head sore? I can take a look at it, if you like."

John touched it carefully. "No damage, just a little bump. But thanks for the offer."

Cameron nodded. "You know, we really should go inside. We're home and yet we've been sitting in the truck for more than five minutes."

John looked around: they were indeed parked outside their apartment block. _Hmm, lack of observation._ "What would Mom say?"

"I don't know, what would she say?"

"_What?_"

"What would Mom say?"

"Did you just read my mind?"

"No, you just said that out loud."

"Oh. Right." John gently felt his head again. _Jeez, if she could read minds_...

"Maybe that bump is worse than you thought?"

"Yeah... I could do with a drink. Let's go get some coffee."

"I prefer lemon tea in the evening."

"Right. Of course. I forgot." John continued to lightly rub the minor injury to his head. "How does that work, you preferring tea over coffee?"

"The arrangement of molecules is more mathematically significant in lemon tea than in coffee."

"Really?"

"No. I just prefer the taste." She sighed and rolled her eyes.

John was about to say something, but thought better of it. "Can we just go inside?" he said instead.

"Of course. Can you manage?" Cameron asked politely.

"I'll take it one step at a time," John said, smiling ironically.

Cameron got out of the truck and moved around to John's side, monitoring his progress along the sidewalk. He headed straight for the entrance of the building, so she grabbed their bags and locked the Ford with the remote. She soon caught up with him.

As they entered the apartment, John could see Derek Reese lounging on the couch, watching television. He looked up at the future commander and his pet cyborg. "Ah! The hero returns," he said sarcastically, before turning his attention back to the singing competition on the tube.

John ignored the older man's barb, and tried once again to engage his uncle in polite conversation. He glanced at the screen. "Anything worth watching?" he asked.

"Nope, but it beats getting killed by machines."

"_Right_. You should have come with us."

"I've had all the shooting practice I need," he said pointedly. "Besides, wouldn't want to cramp your style."

"What's that supposed to mean?" John demanded, his hackles rising.

"You and the metal: all that goddamned flirting! Makes me wanna puke."

"Good thing we didn't bring you back anything to eat then!"

"I had what was left in the fridge."

"We were going to have that tomorrow," Cameron said upon entering the room, having stowed away their bags.

"Oh, so sorry," Derek said, though it was clear to all that he meant the opposite.

"You're neither sanitary nor hygienic, Lieutenant Reese," Cameron said, lifting a dirty plate off the table.

"Yeah, perhaps you ought to start pulling your weight around here," John added.

Derek swung his feet onto the floor and stood up, glaring threateningly. "How come the machine gets a bed – a whole goddamned _room_ – and I'm sleeping on the couch?"

John scratched his chin. "Hmm, good point. You can sleep on the floor." He glared back at his uncle.

"I might as well be living back in that old warehouse. Least I didn't have to see you two creeping around each other."

After a standoff lasting less than a minute, Derek turned away. John allowed himself a small self-congratulatory smirk, then spoke. "I'm gonna take a shower."

As he shut the bathroom door behind him, Cameron moved to get him a towel and the shorts and tee that he wore at night.

As she walked past him, Derek grabbed Cameron by the arm. She looked dismissively at his hand. He didn't let go. "What purpose do you serve?" he asked.

She looked him straight in the eye. "My purpose is to protect John."

"Nothing else?"

"Protect him from everyone and everything."

"Does that include me?"

"Everyone and everything."

"Including you?"

"Everything." She looked again at his hand; he now removed it, then backed away.

Cameron carried on with her tasks.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**Sunday, September 30th 2007.**_

The next morning, John leaped out of bed with unusual vigor.

"Are you alright?" Cameron asked, propping herself up on her elbows.

John knelt down and felt inside the base of his closet, searching for the cover to the hidden safe he and Cameron had installed. "Sure, why?" he called over his shoulder.

"It's Sunday, not a work day for us."

"Yeah, I know," he said stretching a bit more to grab that which he was seeking.

Cameron neatly swiveled her cotton sock-encased feet onto the floorboards and walked up behind him. "You couldn't have gotten out of bed faster if your mother had walked in on us."

John turned his head, wondering if she would be smirking at him again. _No, she's serious_. He shrugged, then tossed her something from the bag he had found.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

A few minutes later, Cameron strode into the kitchen area, where Derek was attempting to make some coffee. She held her present carefully between her thumb and forefinger, and lifted it up to the light to show it off.

"Look what John gave me," she said.

Derek glanced her way. A sound not unlike a bear snarling emanated from the grizzled veteran.

"John says diamonds are a girl's best friend," she continued, totally unperturbed.

"Last I heard, you weren't a girl," Derek sneered.

Cameron frowned slightly.

"We're gonna get a new car," John said, entering the room and pulling a clean shirt over his head.

Derek surprisingly perked up. "Yeah? Never bought a car."

"Should be interesting, then."

"Yeah, interesting," he acknowledged.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

They had wandered around the used autos area of the local dealer's lot, and had settled on a couple of choices. Derek made a case for a large, black Dodge Ram Crew-Cab. Cameron preferred a pewter Jeep Grand Cherokee. John had initially entertained the notion of a low-slung, high-powered red Dodge Charger, but was quickly dissuaded: their frequent trips to the desert and other off-road areas required an all-terrain vehicle. And as Cameron pointed out, _"You told me your mother always liked Jeeps."_ He couldn't argue with that. Derek Reese could, however.

"Seems like I should get to choose, seeing as how you're paying for this out of money you got from selling my diamonds."

"Good point," John said. "But, as those diamonds are probably stolen, maybe I should hand them into the cops; there'll likely be a reward for their safe return, huh?"

Derek said nothing, but glared at John.

"Okay, I can't decide, so I'll make this fair: you two can fight for it, how's that?" John smiled pleasantly at both Derek and Cameron. He tossed the keys to the Ford up in the air; Cameron snatched them before they had reached the top of their arc. "And... Game on!"

Cameron continued to hold the keys at arm's length, without any expression on her face. Derek stood snarling, full of tension, but he didn't move. Eventually his body relaxed, but his eyes still showed the fire burning within.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

After the paperwork had been completed, Cameron drove them off the lot, in the three-year-old Jeep. Derek followed in the even more venerable Ford F-150, alone with his thoughts.

"Do you think you are taking the right approach to dealing with Lieutenant Reese?" Cameron inquired as they queued at a busy intersection.

"Maybe. He's up to something. Those guys of his were out and about for a month, and we got what? A load of photos, blueprints of City Hall, some bank account printouts and a list of Cyberdyne employees. Clearly they weren't the specialists you thought they were gonna be. Shame they got iced though; we coulda used some real fighters for after the bombs drop."

"He still disappears without real explanation. And he was absent when his men were terminated."

"Yeah, I don't buy his whole '_hanging around in parks'_ shtick. I think he's out getting laid."

"He strikes me as a man who is very much focused on his mission; I think the air of indifference is just a veneer."

"So he is up to something?"

"Yes, but I don't think it has anything to do with _'getting laid.'_"

"Well, even hard-bitten future dudes have wants and needs. Guess there wasn't much time for that sort of thing back there."

"On the contrary: procreation is essential for the survival of mankind."

"'_Procreation,'_ eh? Definitely not much time for fun after Judgment Day."

They were now at the head of the line of traffic. Seeing a space, Cameron moved off with a jolt. "Then it's good that you got your share beforehand."

John noted her tone, and the sharp maneuver. _Another piece of the puzzle? Maybe_. "So what do you wanna do? One of us follow him around?"

"That would be a good place to start. I think I might be the best one to undertake the surveillance."

"You wanna play hookey?"

"Yes."

"Right. You never get tired, but I get to slave away in the crappy warehouse. Remind me who's the savior of mankind, out of the two of us?"

"Which one of us looks like a girl, and can claim 'women's troubles' without getting docked a day's pay?"

John sighed, and folded his arms. "Next time, it's definitely gonna be another one of those big gorillas, complete with foreign accent. Totally."

The Jeep stopped sharply. "We're home," Cameron said.

John released his seat belt, grateful that it had prevented his head from hitting the dash. He looked at Cameron with narrowed eyes. She ignored him, so he turned to look behind.

"Okay, so where's Derek?"

_**# # # # # # # #**_

Derek was not long behind them. He looked unnerved as he came in the front door.

"You okay, man?" said John, now drinking coffee at the kitchen table.

"Yeah, still getting the hang of driving, especially on busy streets."

"You just have to gird yourself, jump in. Don't be too afraid, don't be too aggressive."

"Yeah." Derek poured himself a mug from the pot and joined John at the small table.

"So, what you gonna do about finding Skynet, now you've got wheels?"

"Check off some more names on that list. You think I oughtta go see the wife of that guy your mom iced at Cyberdyne?"

John bristled. "She didn't kill him. She never killed anyone. Ever."

"Okay, sorry. Still, do I go visit?"

"If you're as tactful as that, no way."

"You wanna do it?"

"What for? Why'd she wanna see me? What's she gonna tell me? _"Hi John, thanks for helping your mother kill my husband."_ She'd have gotten the 'official' take on the bombing, so she'll think like you. I guess you didn't raise this with Future-Me, or he'd have put you straight."

"Maybe he did. Maybe I didn't believe him."

"_Right_. And maybe if you're not gonna be any kind of helpful, you can go get a job and keep yourself busy 'til J-Day."

"Why'd I need a job, when I have all those diamonds?"

"What diamonds? Oh, you mean the ones that Cameron's holding? Well, you know the drill: get past her, they're all yours."

"You think you're so funny? If you didn't have _it_ there, you wouldn't last a minute."

"Yeah? Maybe. Good thing I do have her."

"One day you won't, and you won't be able to get the drop on everybody like you did me. And you certainly won't get the drop on a machine."

"Really? Who's to say, right? The future's not set."

Once more the two men were moments away from conflict. Cameron chose that moment to remind John that it was a gym day. "As you skipped breakfast, I suggest you eat something soon, in order that it be suitably digested by the time you start your workout."

Derek laughed heartily.

"What's so funny?" John demanded.

"She's got you on a tight leash," he said between belly-laughs.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

When they returned to their North Hills apartment later that evening, they found Derek busy cleaning his handgun at the kitchen table. Cameron bristled when she saw that he hadn't put the waterproof cover down on the table first. It would require a lot of cleaning to make it hygienically suitable for eating food off.

"Didn't I hear the FBI guy that came by last week say something about the same gun that killed my guys being used in another murder: some friend of your mom's?"

"Yeah," John said.

"What's that all about? She kill him, trying to link the two crimes?"

"Yes," said Cameron.

"Why?"

"The old man was an informant: he would have told Mister Ellison that John was buying false identification papers. That would have caused a great deal of trouble for John, and you. By using the same gun, I linked Enrique to what the FBI believe to be drug dealers. The information Enrique was planning to sell to Mister Ellison could conceivably be about them. Also, the FBI will concentrate their resources on locating the Triple-Eight that actually killed your men."

"You want them to flush him out?" John asked.

"Yes. We have no other leads."

"That'd be bad news for the Feds, setting a Trip-Eight on 'em," Derek pointed out.

"We have no option," Cameron reiterated.

"So you say. I'm thinking it's all too convenient, this 'other' machine. Maybe you killed my guys."

"She didn't do it – I saw the Triple-Eight," John said.

"Okay, well then, she led him to the safe house."

"Nobody has been watching us," Cameron said.

"Maybe you told him, huh? Face to face?"

"She's with me all the time. There's no way she could have done it."

"What about at night? You sleep, she doesn't. She could easily slip out, make a call, anything. You'd never know."

"I'd know."

"_Yeah?_"

"Yeah. She wouldn't do it; she didn't do it. She's with me all the time." He leaned in close. "All. The. Time."

"About that: you two act like a real couple."

"Thank you," said Cameron.

"I didn't mean that like it was a good thing."

"It's part of our cover," said John, defensively.

"Really? Is that all it is?"

"Yeah, what else would it be?"

"I dunno, you tell me."

"No, you tell me."

"You said she's with you '_all the time._' Like all day, all night, 'all the time.'"

"Huh! The door's open, you can see for yourself there's nothing going on." John pointed to his bedroom to emphasize his point.

"Yeah well, can't think I would sleep easier nights, knowing there's metal right there, just waiting to go off..."

"Yeah? If it was good enough for Future-Me, it's good enough for _now_-me."

Derek pondered on that, especially the strange way John had of viewing his older self as someone else entirely. _Well, maybe he is_, he thought.

"Not everything he did was right, John. Remember that."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

"Thank you for defending me."

John shrugged. "_No problemo_."

"I mean it."

"Yeah, me too."

Cameron removed her boots and laid down next to him on the bed.

"Follow him tomorrow. Stick to him like glue."

"Like a shadow?"

"Yeah, better. Don't let him see you."

"He won't. I put the tracking device from your motorcycle on the truck."

"Neat." He turned over on his side, away from her. "G'night, Cameron."

"Good night, John."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**Monday, October 1st 2007.**_

Cameron collected John from work at the end of his shift. Their supervisor, Roger Little noticed her sitting behind the wheel of the Jeep.

"Say, you guys got a new car?"

"Yeah," John replied, not stopping to make small talk, but his boss wasn't about to give up; he followed John out to the car. As John climbed in, he whispered to Cameron, "The dork's right behind?"

She nodded, then smiled and leaned over to meet John's lips with her own.

"Hey hon, you feeling better?" John asked, ladling on the concern. He ran a hand through her hair, pushing it behind one ear. As he brought it back, the tips of his fingers lingered momentarily upon her cheek.

"A bit," she replied, sounding like a small girl.

"Hello, Cameron. You're looking good," Little said.

"Am I? That's the meds working. This thing comes and goes; when it's bad I'm like a bear with a sore head, right babe?" She turned to John for confirmation. He nodded grimly, and turned to give Little a knowing look.

"Okay, well, if you don't feel right in the morning, you just rest yourself. I don't want my best worker getting burnt out. No offense, John."

"None taken, boss; she is a hard worker. Took a lot of persuasion to stop her from coming in this AM; she didn't wanna let you down."

"I'll bet! You listen to your guy here; if you're not better tomorrow, don't even think of getting out of bed."

Cameron smiled weakly. "I won't Mister Little."

"Roger."

"_Roger_."

"Okay."

"You up to driving, honey? Or do you want me to?" John asked, still sounding apprehensive.

"I'll manage." She shifted into Drive. "Seeya, Mister Little."

The Jeep pulled away. "Roger," Little said to the departing SUV.

"That guy's an asshole."

"That's no way to speak about our superior," John said.

"Maybe. He's still an asshole."

John shrugged. "Okay. So, did you learn anything today, following Derek around?"

"Sure."

"And?"

"And I bought some strawberry lip gloss."

"Yeah, I noticed. What about Derek?"

"Oh, yeah. He spends a _lot_ of time hanging in parks."

"What's he do?"

"Eats, drinks, looks at the sky."

"Anything else?"

"I don't know."

"You didn't see him meet anyone?"

She shook her head.

"So what were _you_ doing?"

"Watching him... And doing a little bit of shopping."

"Buying lip gloss was more important than the mission?"

"I hadda watch him this one time from a drugstore. I hadda buy something, and I liked that one." She turned briefly toward him. "It was cheap, if that's what's worrying you, babe."

"No, not at all." He wiped his lips with his hand, then smelled his fingers. "_Hmm_."

"It's neat, right?"

"Yeah. _Erm_, if you don't mind me asking, what the hell has gotten into you today? If I didn't know better, I'd say you were on something."

"I'm just fine."

"You sound... distracted, like you're not focused on the mission. More like a girl."

"I told you, I'm fine. Don't fuss." She smiled, trying to mollify him.

John was watching her carefully. She had been pushing loose strands of hair off her face, fidgeting and making all manner of faces. It was as if she was stuck in full-on infiltration mode. It occurred to him that she had been once before.

"What's your name?"

She grinned lopsidedly. "Cameron, _silly_. You know that!"

"Right. And what _are_ you?"

"I'm your girlfriend." She frowned. "At least, I hope so. You're not gonna dump me are you? I totally couldn't handle it right now."

John held his head in his hands and sighed. _Jeez... What have I done to deserve this?_

"You okay, babe? You don't look so good yourself," Cameron asked. She leaned over and touched his shoulder softly.

John looked up. "No, I'm just kinda tired. Wanna get home, soon as possible."

Cameron withdrew her hand and gripped the steering wheel hard. "Nearly there, babe," she said, her face set resolutely.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

If Derek Reese noticed Cameron's odd behavior, he didn't mention it, meaning one less problem for John to negotiate. Since dinner she'd spent her time alone in her room, something she often did when Derek was around anyway.

John yawned and stood up from the couch, then stretched. "Gonna hit the sack," he said.

Derek grunted in response.

After a visit to the bathroom, John retreated to his room, undressed and got into bed. He heard the TV go silent. The light in the living room went out seconds later. He knew that if he didn't fall asleep soon, the sound of Derek's snoring would be drifting into his room.

Unfortunately, his mind was churning with a seemingly never-ending flow of worries, so it was that his uncle's snores obliterated the soft footsteps that approached. The bed sheet lifted and she slid into the bed behind him; he turned to face her, but she merely snuggled up to him, then apparently went to sleep, her head resting on his chest, her right arm holding him.

"Cameron?" he whispered. "_Cameron?_"

She made no reply, so he shuffled his arms around her, to try and shake her awake quietly. He discovered that she was wearing an oversized tee-shirt, probably one of his, with panties underneath. His toes brushed against her feet, causing him to smile: she was still wearing her cotton ankle socks. It had always struck him as odd that she wore socks under her boots; she didn't need to either for comfort or blending in purposes, but whenever he saw her padding about the apartment in them, having removed her boots, it always made him feel slightly more cheerful. Was it one of those indefinable things about her that he had been trying to relate to Charley Dixon? _Possibly_. _Probably._ _Definitely_.

He moved onto his back, staring at the ceiling. She stirred slightly and mumbled something, then held him tighter, but her breathing soon settled back into a regular rhythm.

_Jeez.._.

It felt to John like he had just gotten off to sleep, when he was wide awake again. Cameron was still there, but she too was awake, smiling through sleepy eyes. She poked him in the stomach. "C'mon babe, gotta go to work," she said, before getting out of bed and shuffling to the bathroom, scratching one of her butt cheeks absentmindedly. One of her socks had come off in the night, but she didn't seem to notice.

Fearful of what Derek Reese might think or say upon seeing Cameron exit his room dressed like that, John shot after her, but his uncle was nowhere to be seen. There was no trace of him, not even a dirty mug left on the kitchen table.

John knocked on the bathroom door. "Cameron? Let me in."

"No way! You can wait your turn," came her muffled reply. He heard the toilet flush, then the sound of water splashing in the basin.

"Listen to me! You've gotta tell me what's going on, right now!" he shouted.

"You're gonna be late for work if you don't get out of bed."

"What?" He thought he'd misheard. The bathroom door opened. Cameron still had one cotton sock on, but nothing else. She was brushing her teeth.

"I said: _you're gonna be late for work if you don't get out of bed_." Her voice was clear despite the brushing, though it didn't appear to be coming from her mouth: it was coming from behind him. And why was she telling him to get out of bed? He turned over, to see Cameron sitting there, shaking his shoulder.

"John?"

"What? What's going on? What day is it?" He sat up in bed.

"Monday. It's the first day of the month too, so it's gonna be busy out there." She picked up a mug of coffee from the nightstand and handed it to him, then watched as he gingerly sipped the hot drink.

John took a couple of deep breaths, then blinked a few times. Realization dawned. "I had a dream."

"Oh? Was it interesting?"

"I dreamed a whole day's worth. I went to work, and it was a real hard shift."

"Doesn't sound very interesting. Do you think it has some subconscious meaning?"

"I dunno, but that wasn't all. I came home, had dinner, went to bed, then woke up thinking it was Tuesday. _Then_ I woke up for real."

"Uh-huh."

John took another couple of sips. "Do you wear strawberry lip gloss?"

"Color or flavor?"

"Both. No, flavor."

"No. Was I in your dream?"

"Yeah. You collected me from work in the Jeep, told me what Derek had been up to, we went home."

"Oh. What about the strawberry-flavored lip gloss?"

"You were wearing it."

"How do you know?"

John hesitated. "When I got in the car, we kissed," he said quickly, then swallowed some more coffee.

"Really?"

"Yeah, it was part of our cover, for the benefit of the supervisor."

"We never do anything like that at work; you insisted."

"Yeah." He remembered saying it.

"Shouldn't that have alerted you to the fact that you were dreaming?"

"Possibly. Probably." _Definitely_, he thought.

"Was it a pleasant kiss?"

"It was a '_Hi, are you feeling better?_' kinda kiss."

"No tongues?"

He shook his head. "Definitely no tongues."

John took another sip. Cameron sat placidly at his side, watching his every move. He wanted her to leave, but didn't want to make it obvious that he did. He hoped she wouldn't pursue the current line of inquiry, though he also knew that she could keep asking questions until she got what she wanted. This day however, his prayers were answered. Well, one of them at least.

"Anything else interesting happen?" she asked.

"You were acting... _weird_. I thought maybe you'd somehow got stuck in your human ID, like before in Red Valley."

"Hmm."

"Got nothing else to say?"

"Dream analysis is not one of my skills: I have no experience to relate to."

"No." John took a big slug of the coffee, now that the heat had gone from it.

Cameron rose from the bed and headed out of the room. She was fully dressed, and John noted, wearing her boots.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

John took the bus to and from work, as they had planned all along. _Why didn't I spot that? Who cares? It was only a freaking dream; don't mean nothing!_ he thought as he trudged up the stairs of their apartment block.

"Where's Derek?" he asked as he came through the doorway.

Cameron was crouched in front of the fridge, looking as if she was about to withdraw something. "He's using your pass at the gym. I thought it best to be home when you got here, so that he didn't know we weren't together today," she replied, standing up empty-handed.

"Did you learn anything?"

"He does spend a lot of time in the park. And he has a left-luggage locker at Union Station."

"Really? What's in it?"

"I don't know."

"You didn't break in to it?"

"Clearly not."

John moved closer. "Buying lip gloss was more important?"

Cameron tilted her head slightly. Either John's observation skills were improving, or he was taking more interest in her appearance. "I needed to observe him at one point from a drugstore. I had to buy something to justify being in there so long, and I thought I'd try it." She paused momentarily. "It wasn't just because of your dream, if that's what you're worried about."

"No, not at all." He gently wiped a finger across her lips and sniffed it. "_Hmm_."

"Is it nice?"

"Yeah," he said with what he hoped was a nonchalant shrug, however the feeling of déjà-vu was almost overwhelming. "Erm... So, why not break into his locker?"

"There are cameras everywhere. I could shut down the power to the whole of that area of Los Angeles, but that would inconvenience a great many people, and he'll likely know it was me anyway. I suggest simply confronting him about it."

"You, 'worried' about other people? That's new."

"I'm not worried; I assumed you would be. I'll amend my database if that is not the case."

"No, no."

"What's the plan?"

"Well, when he comes in, we just take him down there, get him to open the locker; simple."

"Yes, simple," Cameron agreed.

"Hopefully it will have something interesting in it, but not too interesting."

"I don't understand."

"Are you missing anything from your underwear drawer?"

Cameron hesitated a second. "No."

"Cross that one off the list."

"What list?" Cameron was very confused. John had been behaving strangely since he woke up that morning.

"The list of potentially interesting things that could be in his locker."

"Why would my underwear be in his locker?"

John chuckled. "Some guys, they, uh... They have odd habits; they collect stuff."

"You think Lieutenant Reese is an underwear thief?"

"Takes all sorts; but _no_. I'm just having fun."

"Oh."

"Don't worry about it."

Cameron turned her head sharply. "He's here."

The front door opened, and Derek strode in. He saw John and Cameron staring at him, standing closely together; much too close for his liking. He dumped his gym bag on the couch, then faced the duo.

"What's up?" he asked.

"Road trip," John said.

"All of us?" Derek said.

"All of us."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

They drove in silence to Union Station. Walking either side of him, they escorted him to his locker.

"Open it," Connor ordered.

Reese didn't bother arguing; not with Phillips standing casually there, no less of a threat for being built so compactly.

Connor reached in and hauled out a backpack. A cursory look revealed a hand-written journal, photographs and other items that appeared to have been plucked from a trash can. "Okay, let's go."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

The journey home also passed without a word being spoken. When they got in, Connor waved Reese toward the kitchen table. Phillips escorted him there, making sure he sat down. She stood behind him, out of his sight.

After Connor had taken off his coat and hung it up, he went over to the fridge and helped himself to a can of soda. Then he emptied the contents of the back pack onto the couch. He picked up the photographs, then came and sat down opposite Reese. He placed the pictures on the table between them. They were all of the same man.

"Talk," Connor said.

"Andy Goode," Derek replied, picking up one of the pictures. "His name: Andrew David Goode."

"And?"

"And he creates Skynet."

"Right. You've been sitting on this for... how long? Six weeks? Or did you just discover this yesterday?"

"I've known a while," Reese admitted.

"And you didn't think to share this with us?"

"I can handle it myself."

"Really? So you're not part of our team? You're running your own angle?"

"It's personal."

"And stopping Skynet doesn't mean squat to me? Or any one of the billions who are gonna fry?"

Reese leaned forward, and instantly felt a firm hand on his shoulder. He ignored it. "We all have our reasons, we all have our part to play; this is mine." He leaned back in his chair. The metal hand released its grip.

"You wanna be the hero?" Connor asked.

"No, that's your job," Reese sneered.

"Funny. We need to talk about this."

"So talk."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

"How was your day at the depot?" Cameron asked.

"About as bad as in my dream."

"Same as usual then?"

"Yep. I wish you'd picked something better, career-wise," John grumbled.

"The choice was limited."

"Think how much we could make working with computers."

"If you just wanted a large amount of money, I could have robbed a bank."

"So you keep saying."

"We have some money now. And most of the diamonds," Cameron pointed out.

"Yeah. Tell me, why are we still going to work?"

"To maintain our cover."

"Like pretending to be a couple?"

"Yes."

"Why can't we just be _us?_"

"Because I'm a terminator and you are John Connor."

"Are we ever gonna be us?"

Cameron wondered if she'd misunderstood his prior question. "What is '_us?_'"

"I dunno."

None the wiser, she pursued her original tack. "After Judgment Day you'll be John Connor."

"Hmm. What about you?"

"I don't know."

John had only ever referred to Cameron's future dismissively. Now it seemed that she had a pessimistic view of it too. He didn't like that. He turned over to face her. "Did you miss me today?"

"Yes."

"It must be the longest we've been apart since we met."

"Certainly since Christmas Eve," she said.

John twitched with embarrassment. "So, um, how did you get through the day, without me?"

"I focused on my mission."

"Yeah. Of course."

"Being a terminator helps sometimes."

John chuckled.

"Did you miss _me?_" Cameron asked.

John hesitated before answering. "I missed you picking up the slack for me when I got tired."

"Well, that's something."

John was silent for a long time while he tried to fall asleep, but as in his dream, his mind raced with thoughts, countering his attempts.

"Why do you wear socks under your boots?" he asked.

"Doesn't everybody?"

"Yeah, I guess so. I just thought you didn't need to."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Is that dumb?"

"Yes."

"Mmm, you're right. Dunno why I thought that."

Cameron made no reply. She continued monitoring him, though her silence encouraged him to further confess.

"Well, okay... I thought with your skin healing itself and you not feeling pain, you wouldn't need to. Like I said, dumb..."

"I feel pain, just not the same way that you do."

"I guess I didn't think that through."

"It's not unusual for the human male's IQ level to drop substantially in the presence of an attractive female."

John chuckled again. "Yeah..."

"I like them," he said after another long period of silence.

"I don't understand."

"Your socks. I like them."

"You're welcome to have them, but I don't think they'll fit you."

"No, I meant I like them _on_ you."

"Oh."

"You still don't understand?"

"No." After a pause she continued, "I don't think I'll ever really understand you."

John sighed. "That's how I feel about you." He chewed it over some more. "It's something in common though."

"Yes."

Although he couldn't see her, he knew she could see him, see his smile. Her eyes glowed with a soft blue light, bathing both of them in its luminosity so that John could see that she too was smiling.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**Tuesday, October 2nd 2007.**_

Cameron steered the Jeep into the parking lot of their local Wal-Mart. She pulled into a space alongside her old F-150 where Derek was waiting. As she got out, he took her place behind the wheel of the Jeep.

Derek hadn't had time to get bored before he noticed Cameron exit the store with a small carrier bag. "That was quick!"

"Yeah, she doesn't waste time when we're out shopping, looking at everything in every color, every size. She knows what she wants, and goes for it. She's very... efficient," John disclosed.

Derek looked at his future leader in disbelief. "Wait – you go chick shopping, like on a Saturday? With the machine?"

John felt a little embarrassed, and squirmed slightly in his seat. "Er, yeah... Why wouldn't I? I mean, we need stuff, we have to try to act normal, you know..."

"No, I don't know, John," Derek replied coldly.

"Well, maybe you should try it sometime, _Lieutenant," _John advised, adopting an equally glacial tone.

Cameron climbed back in the car.

"So what did you get that was so vital to the mission?" Derek inquired.

She dug into the bag and held up a special offer two-pack of men's socks.

"Right! So, _Johnny_ here needs socks more than we need to get intel off Andy Goode. Great! I told you, John, don't leave it to the metal–"

"John does need new socks, but I need them right now," she interrupted, stuffing one pair down each side of her bra. "I thought I could kill two birds with one stone."

John tried unsuccessfully to hide his smirk.

Derek huffed, and managed a grumbled retort, "Always with the killing..."

Cameron shot Derek a frosty look, then turned to John with a smile. "What do you think?" she asked, showing off her enhanced cleavage.

"It should catch his attention, but personally... I prefer you without," he replied. Cameron's smile widened slightly.

"Hey, when we're trying to survive the nuclear winter, she can warm your socks, John!" quipped Derek. Looking around, he didn't see anyone else laughing, which just made it all the funnier to him.

"Are we gonna do this today, or wait until tomorrow?" John inquired icily.

Gathering himself together, Derek started the car and moved off. Soon he was parked within view of Cell Division, the cell phone shop where their target worked.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

After Cameron had talked with Andy Goode for about fifteen minutes, she purchased three disposable cell phones, then left the shop smiling. A few paces out of the door, she turned back to wave at Goode, making a show of brandishing one of the cells, a metallic pink one.

"Over-doing it much?" Derek asked of no-one.

"We'll find out soon enough. Believe me, she's real good at this kinda thing," John replied.

Cameron got in back of the car. "That went well," she said. "I got you one with a camera," she said, handing a box to John. "It plays MP3s too." She handed Derek his box without comment.

"Awesome!" said John, as he took it from her and began to open the box enthusiastically. "Thanks!" he added with a smile.

"You're welcome," Cameron replied, returning his smile.

Derek cleared his throat. "The mission? You know, what we came here for?"

Before either of the other occupants could reply, Cameron's new cell started ringing, with an irritatingly catchy song for its ring tone.

"Hello?" she answered, then switched to a warmer, more girlish tone. "Oh _hi_, Andy! Yeah, you know I was _hoping_ you'd call… I'd _love_ to! When? ..._Tomorrow?_ What time? ...No, that's perfect... Yeah, see you, _'bye._" She snapped the cell shut, then looked at John. "Nineteen-Thirty hours, dinner at his place, 165 Mosrow," she said, all traces of playfulness gone from her voice. The perfunctory way she changed her behavior caught John by surprise; he hadn't seen her do that for a while.

"Well, if Andy Goode gets lucky tomorrow night, he's gonna be real disappointed to find those socks in there!" Derek said bitingly.

"If Andy Goode gets in any way lucky, he won't try to 'get lucky,'" John replied through gritted teeth, something which Derek failed to notice, but Cameron did not.

"Finding he's put his hands down the bra of a terminator – it's a hell of a way to go out!" Derek decided, before being given a gentle slap on the head from the aforementioned cybernetic organism.

"Keep your mind on the mission, not the gutter, Lieutenant Reese!" she ordered.

"_OW!_ Hey, you gonna do anything about that?" he asked John, whose turn it was to laugh heartily. "Guess not..."

"You got bitch-slapped, man!" John said, then turned to the cyborg in the rear seat and noticing her smirk, gave her a wink, adding: "You can take the socks out now though."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

Back home, John realized that in all the fun and hilarity, he'd missed asking Cameron something. "Listen, what story did you come up with, for Andy Goode?"

"For why we needed three cell phones?"

"Yes."

"I told him that we are new in town."

"And about us?"

"I told him that you are my brother."

"At last!"

"And that Derek is your boyfriend."

Two jaws slackened slightly. Derek looked like he was about to say something, but John interrupted his garbled croak.

"Okay, that makes sense, allows you to get close, without him being suspicious of us two hanging around. Smart move," he said. Derek was still unable to verbalize whatever it was that he wanted to say.

"Thank you. I've never detected homophobic tendencies in either you or Future-John, so I didn't think you'd mind. Analysis of the mission requirements determined this to be the best approach."

"Yeah," John agreed, nodding enthusiastically. He turned to Derek. "No holding hands though."

Derek managed a grunt, then stalked off into the kitchenette, looking for a beer. Fortunately for the fridge door, there was one bottle left.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**Wednesday, October 3rd 2007.**_

Cameron strolled into the living room, her new high heels click-clacking on the wooden floorboards. John shifted his eyes slowly from the TV, over his feet which were resting on the coffee-table, over to the recently-acquired armchair which was occupied by a dozing Derek Reese. Cameron was partly obscured from his view by the slumbering warrior as she tidied up some plates and cutlery that had almost made it to the sink. That task done, she returned, inquiring if John was ready to go.

Slightly distracted by the inane goings-on of the sit-com he had been watching, he muttered a quick, "Yeah, 'course..." but trailed off, struck dumb as he saw her outfit in its entirety.

"Is everything alright?" she asked, noting his expression. She didn't need thermal imaging to note the rush of blood to his face.

"No! Yes! I mean... _No!_ It's not all right! You can't go out like that!"

"Why not? It fits perfectly, and the weather is fine enough for me not to require a coat."

"Where's the rest of it?" John spluttered.

"The rest? This is all of it," Cameron replied simply.

"What is it?"

"My L.B.D."

"What?"

"Little Black Dress."

"What?"

"Every girl's number one essential wardrobe item, according to Vogue magazine."

"What?"

"Your knowledge is deficient in certain areas," Cameron decided.

"You can't go out like that!" John repeated, struggling to make his case in exactly the right way. He knew what he wanted to say, but couldn't say it without feeling foolish. It struck him that he looked foolish anyway, but there had to be another way, there always was.

"Why not?" Cameron repeated herself too, but added a slightly confused expression, one she knew had a high cuteness factor. She too knew what John wanted to say, and wanted to make him say it, so played along with the game. She turned around with her hands on her hips, the better to show off her rear, but continued looking at him over her shoulder.

John traced her legs, encased in sheer black hose, up, up, up to a point a mere couple of inches from where they ended and her butt clearly started. Her dress began there, covering the rest of her torso up to the neck, but it clung to her frame like a second skin; as its name suggested, it was a shade designed for the night.

She had done something to her hair, so that it fell in big curls, spilling over her shoulders. And she was wearing big, colorful ear-rings, something he'd never seen her do, except maybe when they first met, but his memory wasn't that good: it was her face, her eyes, and her manner that had captivated him back then. _"And her ass,"_ his mother's voice sang out, sharply, clearly and smugly. He banished such thoughts away with a shake of his head.

"Look, if you go out dressed like that, Andy will likely die of a nerdgasm."

Cameron neatly pivoted around to face him again, looking confused. "What is that?"

"Work it out: he's a lonely, single guy and he's a nerd who's into computers."

"So are you," she noted, folding her arms across her chest.

"Am I that nerdy?"

"You want me to make a subjective assessment?"

"Forget it! Listen, trust me, you go in all dressed up like that, he'll be suspicious: guys like him don't get hot-looking girls like you."

"Are you saying I'm hot-looking?"

"You're the one with perfect recall. You know I said it last year, so don't give me a hard time; focus on the mission."

"Right. Sorry."

"Okay, no harm. Go get changed, quickly. Just jeans and a nice shirt will do fine."

Cameron turned to go. As she reached her room, he called after her: "Yes."

She paused in the doorway, again looking over her shoulder. "'Yes' what?"

"Yes, you look hot. Happy? Now get changed. And lose the socks."

Cameron smiled briefly, then did as she was told, going about her task contentedly.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

As John pulled to a halt outside Andy Goode's house, he took Cameron's hand in his.

"Whatever you do, don't kill him, okay? This is just a recon mission."

She looked at their conjoined hands, then up at his eyes. "Okay."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"Good girl," he said. He followed her gaze back down to the armrest between them, where he was patting her hand. He let go, a bit too quickly. He had one last word of advice. "If he asks you if you want a coffee at the end, he means sex."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Hmm, I'll take that into consideration," she said, shrugging slightly.

John frowned as she left the car. He watched her all the way up to Andy Goode's front door, then drove to a nearby drive-thru to wait.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

Cameron managed to navigate her way through both a meal and Andy's small talk. She showed enough interest in his hobbies that he revealed to her that he had built a chess-playing machine and the artificial intelligence that resided within. He called it '_The Turk_,' after the Eighteenth Century fraudulent automaton. She offered to play it.

"You play chess?"

"A little. My brother taught me."

Cameron found it to be an interesting opponent, but not as devious as General John Connor, the man who initiated her into the ways of the game.

"Wow, you're good!"

"Thank you."

"That's odd, though. Theoretically that shouldn't have happened: The Turk should beat any human that's ever lived. Maybe I oughtta find someone who plays chess better than me, to beef up the programming. Do you know anything about that kinda thing?"

"Me? No way! Computers scare the heck out of me: I'm a people person. That's like, probably a fluke or something, me winning."

"Right," Andy said, glumly. He watched as Cameron suddenly darted to the back door, yanking it open. "Are you okay?"

"Yes. I saw someone lurking there. It seems he has gone."

Andy grabbed the kitchen phone off the wall, dialing 911 while Cameron got her cell out, sending a text to John's phone.

Goode hung up, assured that police officers were en route._ "Erm_, do you want a coffee, or something else?"

"Er, _no_. Thanks, but I really have to be going; work tomorrow, early, you know?" she shrugged for extra emphasis.

"Sure, me too." Andy said.

Cameron waved her new cell. "I've told my brother I'm ready; he's been visiting friends nearby."

Andy smiled, then showed her to the door. "Can we do this again sometime?" he asked.

"Yes, I'd like that; you've got my number, right?" she said, smiling.

"Yeah," he grinned.

She left without giving him a kiss, not even on the cheek, but she did shake his hand. John, who was watching from over the road in their car, found that he was relieved.

Cameron slipped into the passenger seat of the Jeep. "Derek was lurking."

"You sure?"

She gave him a withering look.

"Okay. Sorry. Question is: why? We need to find out exactly what Derek Reese has been keeping from us. You might have to persuade him to talk."

"I think I can manage that."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**NEXT: Chapter Ten **– Don't Leave Me This Way._

_In which John comes to a momentous decision and Derek & Cameron team up to save the world. Sort of._


	10. Ten

**Chapter Ten: Don't Leave Me This Way.**

_**Los Angeles: Wednesday, October 3rd 2007.**_

"So... What happened back there?" John asked, guiding the Jeep home through the evening traffic.

Cameron looked at him. "Andy offered me coffee."

"And?"

"And, I turned him down."

"Uh-huh."

"He didn't have any sugar."

"That was the deal breaker?"

"No. I didn't want to have sex with him."

"Right. He might have just been offering you coffee."

"But you said–"

"Yeah, well... I meant it like, when you're on a date, asking someone inside for a coffee, it's like saying: please stay the night."

"Oh. And 'stay the night' means having sex?"

"Usually. But I guess it doesn't have to. You have to play these things by ear."

"But it's safe to assume that it would involve sex?"

"If you'd been wearing that dress from earlier, there wouldn't have been any assuming."

Cameron turned to face out the window, allowing herself a small, self-satisfied smirk.

"Tell me more about what happened before the coffee offer... And I don't mean what you had to eat," John said.

Cameron gave him a careful summary of the evening's events, including the details of Andy Goode's Turk.

"So it's cobbled together from video-games machines? I'd have thought that the program is the important part though."

"I played it and won; the chess program is not as effective as Andy thought."

"Maybe he'll abandon his ideas of world domination through chess?" John scoffed.

"Maybe. But we should still destroy the apparatus. He told me that it's unreliable: it has different moods."

"Really? Who'd have thought that: a moody machine, huh?"

Cameron stared intently at John. "Are you implying something?"

"Me, implying? No way!" John paused to look at her before continuing, "I'm flat out saying it: you are a moody machine!"

It came out a little harsher than he intended, and had an immediate effect on Cameron. She pouted slightly, then brought the conversation back on course.

"We should consider terminating Andy Goode."

John gripped the wheel a bit tighter. "Maybe you should have stayed for that coffee."

There was an uncomfortable silence in the Jeep. At the next red light, John looked over at Cameron. She seemed to be studying her right hand carefully.

"Problem?" he asked.

She glanced his way, flashing a reassuring smile. "Not at all. I'm scanning Andy Goode's fingerprints."

John raised his eyebrows. "Wow! How'd you do that?"

"I shook hands with him when I left. He was sweating a lot; the sweat has dried sufficiently now for me to discern his prints."

"That's a really neat trick," John noted.

"Thank you."

"So what does it tell you?"

"That Andy Goode was a member of Derek Reese's squad in 2027. But his name there was Billy Wisher."

The light turned to green; John released the foot brake and the Jeep eased forward. "Is he one of the guys sent back – who got killed?"

"No – to both; they were Sayles, Sumner and Timms."

"So he stayed in the future. What does it mean? About him creating Skynet?"

"I don't know. What do you think it means?"

John deliberated some more, before offering up a theory. "I think he told Derek something in the future. Maybe the list of Cyberdyne employees, certainly that he was one of them. Derek definitely knew something you didn't, and he was just a soldier in the future, right? How would he know stuff you didn't – that Future-Me didn't?"

"Because he kept it to himself."

"Exactly. And why would he do that?"

"I don't know."

"We'd better find out whose side he's on. And soon."

"Do you think he's working for Skynet?"

"No, not at all! But if he's not working with us either, what else is there? Is there a third side in this war?"

Cameron paused before answering. "Not at the moment."

"Hmm. Maybe we shouldn't go heavy on Derek; see if we can encourage him to offer up his secret."

"Yes, it would be better if he was working with us."

"I've been thinking. If Andy Goode created Skynet, he must be one hell of a coder. That level of expertise could come in handy after J-Day: re-programming terminators, maybe even hacking Skynet itself. We've gotta get him on our team."

"What about the Turk?"

"Destroy it or adapt it into our own weapon? Tough choice. One way might strangle Skynet at birth, the other could give us something to fight with if someone else makes it."

"You must make that choice soon," Cameron said quietly.

"Yeah... Just promise me you won't kill Andy Goode in the meantime."

Cameron was silent for a time, but they had to stop at another red. John looked unflinchingly at her. "Cameron?" he prompted.

She smiled reassuringly. "Promise."

A few minutes later, John swung the Jeep neatly into their usual parking space. As they entered their home, Cameron disappeared into her room. Derek was sitting on the couch with his feet up on the low table.

"Nice night prowling?" asked John, taking a seat alongside him.

"Been in all night, watching the tube," replied Derek.

"_Right_. The truck's hood is red hot and you got fresh mud and grass on your boots from hiding in the bushes round at Andy Goode's."

Derek raised one eyebrow, as a way of challenging John to take the matter further.

"We're meant to be working as a team on this: Cameron goes in to gather intel, we discuss it, then work out what to do next. I don't recall the part of the plan that has you peeking in the windows, seeing what she's up to."

"Right, that's your job," Derek said.

"What does that mean?"

"You wanna make sure she's not bangin' ol' Andy, cos she's yours and yours alone, right?" Derek said archly.

John sighed pointedly. "She's right about your mind being in the gutter."

"You don't think people will think that way, after Skynet has taken from them everything that matters, and sent machines like her after what's left? _Huh?_"

"That's your future Reese, the one you came from. Ours can be different."

"Some things never change, John. Face it, you can't keep her around for ever."

"Understand this: I've spent nearly a year... a whole freaking year, pushing her away, treating her like crap, giving her every excuse to leave. And you know what? She never did, she's still here. Everyone else gave up on me at some time, even my mom. But not her. She'll _never_ leave me."

Derek shook his head. "That's still gonna be a problem, in the future."

"Not for me."

"For her."

"She can handle it."

"Can you handle what they'll do to her?"

Cameron reappeared from her room, heading for the kitchenette. "John?" she said.

"Yeah?" he said, distractedly.

"Would you like some coffee?"

"What?" he spluttered, turning to look at her.

Cameron held up the coffee pot. "I'll make some."

"_Right_. No, no thanks." He yawned, then got up and stretched. "I'm gonna hit the sack."

Before too long, Cameron joined him in his room.

"What were you two talking about?" she asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Oh, you know, Resistance fighter stuff. Just two guys shooting the breeze."

"Did you hit the target?"

_**# # # # # # # #**_

Later, Cameron gazed at John as he slept. She could tell that he was dreaming, and wondered what about. Sometimes he would tell her; at other times he kept his nocturnal interludes to himself.

That night he was peacefully but sadly reliving one of the last days of Sarah Connor's eventful life, that had taken place in an obscure south-western hospital.

"_Bringing me here: not a good move," Sarah said._

_John took her hand. "I'm sorry. I never thought they'd chain you up like this."_

"_Not that. You've made yourself visible: you're on the grid again. That thing is still out there. It'll find you. It'll kill you. It's what–"_

"_What they do... Yeah, I know. Listen, Ellison's got me a new ID – it's as real as it gets, and he let me encrypt the files so nobody can trace me from them; I can disappear again."_

"_But not now. You're here. They can find you, here."_

"_No, Ellison said they wouldn't release details until..."_

"_Until what? I'm dead?"_

"_Yeah."_

"_Then it'll become history; it'll be a matter of public record. They can send another one back to this point. There'll be two of them looking for you." Sarah shook her head. "John, how can you be so stupid, forgetting everything I taught you?"_

"_I guess because nothing matters without you, Mom."_

"_Don't you think like that, John Connor! Ever! You're the one that matters... The only one! Remember that..." her already weak voice trailed off into a whisper._

_John passed his mother a glass of water, which she slurped with difficulty through a straw. It pained him to see her in such a fragile condition._

"_Remember June 8th, 1997?" she asked. He shook his head. Dates held little or no significance for him. "It was the day you came for me, and the day I gave you up for adoption," she said._

"_What?" John saw tears escaping from her eyes. "What? You never said..."_

"_No, I couldn't: I was ashamed I signed you away; I thought it was for the best, but then I changed my mind. I decided there and then that I would find you, or die trying."_

"_You almost did – you said I was stupid then, too."_

_Sarah smiled. "You're not stupid; far from it."_

"_Why'd you tell me this, now?"_

"_Death-bed confession? Maybe. Maybe you need to know that everyone has feet of clay, no-one is invincible; we all have moments of weakness. It's how you deal with it that matters."_

"_You've always been my rock, a diamond really: flawless."_

_Sarah chuckled wheezily. "Far from it; I'm more of a lump of coal. And now I'm burnt out."_

_John found that he had no answer to that_.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**Tuesday, October 9th 2007.**_

John woke up with Cameron beside him on the bed, as had become their custom.

"Morning! Did you sleep well?" he asked.

"That's the ninth day in a row you've asked me that question. And you know I don't sleep."

"Some jokes never get old."

"Really? That's not what you tell the late night TV show presenters, even though they can't hear you." John's propensity to rail at the television baffled her. If he wanted to have a serious dialogue with a machine, he had her; perhaps he liked having one that didn't answer back?

"It's so good that I have you to remind me of all my failings. You don't have to stay with me, you know. You could always go somewhere else: Alaska, maybe."

"I can't go anywhere else, you know that."

"_Right_, your programming."

"No. You hold on to me so tightly at night, I fear I might have to break your arms to get away."

"Oh." John released her, turned onto his back and folded his arms behind his head.

"_'Oh'_ indeed." Cameron got off the bed and looked down on him. "You need a vacation."

John groaned. "Not if it's like the last one." He recalled the week that they'd spent in the desert back in early summer: she'd forced him to exist on whatever he could catch. Having had survival training from his mother, all he'd got out of the exercise was a sun tan, which had pretty much faded now.

"No, I was thinking of something more relaxing," Cameron said.

"You mean actually getting away from it all?"

"Yes."

"Like Disneyland?"

Cameron frowned. "If you wish."

"Hmm." Thinking back on their visit to the pier at Santa Monica, John's enthusiasm waned.

"What?" Cameron asked.

"You'll just stand around watching people and I'll feel like a fraud."

"Why?"

"'Cause in order to blend in, we gotta act like a couple; I know we can do it, but it's fake. I want something real."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

Sitting out in the parcel depot's parking lot, they spent their lunch-break eating sandwiches away from everyone else, as they so often did. The Jeep's liftgate was open, providing them both with a seat for their snack. Cameron resumed the earlier conversation.

"You didn't seem to mind Charley Dixon thinking that I'm your girlfriend," she said.

"True, but if I'd contradicted you, he'd have wondered if we were hiding something. Remember that my mom hid stuff from him; she basically lied to him."

"So you lied to him about us."

"No. Yes..." John sighed. "Look, _whatever_. I know we've gotta be consistent: we tell everyone the same story, act the same way outside. As long as we know what's going on inside, that's all that matters, right?"

"I know what's going on inside," Cameron stated.

"Right..."

Cameron watched John tuck heartily in to his second sandwich. He seemed to appreciate her food, if nothing else. "If we are going to continue posing as a couple, shouldn't we have pictures of us together?"

"You mean like on our cells?" John said, whilst masticating loudly.

"Yes. And in the apartment. Perhaps you should have one in your wallet. I've seen plenty of men showing other people their family pictures."

"Isn't that just kids?" John wiped his hands and face with the paper towel that Cameron had thoughtfully placed in his brown paper lunch bag.

"No, they can be wives. Girlfriends too."

"Okay, come here," John beckoned her nearer. He got his cell out and selected the camera from the menu. He put his free arm around Cameron's waist and pulled her tight. "Okay, say cheese!"

He released her, then looked at the snap on the cell's screen. He sighed heavily.

"What?" Cameron asked.

He handed her the cell so that she could see the picture. He was smiling happily, but she looked like she was posing for a passport photo. He pointed this out to her, which made her pout slightly.

"You've gotta relax, look happy. Look like you're in love. You know, hug me, grin like an idiot."

"Is that what you were doing in this?" she said, pointing to the snap.

"Yeah, and a damn fine job I made of it, don't you think?"

"Yes, you look like an idiot."

John snatched the cell back off her. "You're the one supposed to be the expert infiltrator."

He stood up and taking her hand, walked forward a few paces. Still holding her hand, he encouraged her to settle in up close.

"Now, relax, hold me and think nice thoughts."

"You want me to define _pi_ to 5 million places?" she said, adopting a sidelong position.

"Um, well if that's what turns you on..." John released her hand, drifted his across the small of her back, then lower down to her butt. Cameron jerked her head, staring at him. "Get in character," he advised.

"Oh," she said, snuggling back in.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, then leaned up and kissed him on the cheek, just as the shutter clicked.

John looked at the screen again and smiled. "Well, that's better," he said.

"Send it to my cell," Cameron said. When her cell beeped confirming the photo's arrival, she smiled at John. "Yes, it looks perfect. But we should have some more; one won't be enough."

"Yeah, we should do some more at home, change our shirts. And maybe go outside somewhere, like the park, but at the weekend. Can't have all the snaps in the same place at the same time."

"No. Perhaps we should have thought of this earlier. We have had many chances."

"Yeah, well... Perhaps _you_ should have thought of this sooner, Ms Perfect."

"I'm not perfect, I make mistakes."

John shrugged, then looked back at the screen. He smiled again at the picture.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**Thursday, October 11th 2007.**_

John slogged through a seemingly endless series of repetitions, urged on and watched over by his tireless cyborg partner. Having missed his gym session the previous night, due to taking a turn observing Andy Goode, Cameron had insisted that he catch up straight after work, despite his protestations of tiredness. Thus when he arrived home it was later, and he was grumpier, than usual.

He swung the front door open, only to find their apartment suspiciously empty. John booted up the laptop while Cameron searched for any signs of Derek Reese. Having checked everywhere else, she came out of her room. John looked up.

She shook her head. "Everything of his is gone."

"Figures. Right, I've got a hit," he replied.

Cameron walked over and stood alongside John. He pointed to the screen, which displayed a map of the Van Nuys district. A red dot blinked on and off.

"He's at the safe house," Cameron said.

John sighed, then reached for his cell phone. He dialed Derek Reese's number.

The Resistance veteran answered on the third ring. "Yeah?"

"Derek? How you doing?"

"Fine."

"You flying solo?"

"If you mean tailing Andy, no; I just need to spend some time alone, give you guys a wide berth."

John ignored the caustic comment. "Where you at?"

"The safe house. I'm partial to the carpet in the office," Derek said.

Despite himself, John grinned. "Okay, but tomorrow we meet and decide what to do next. Don't do anything before."

"Sure, you're the boss, John."

"Yeah," John said, but Derek had already hung up.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**Friday, October 12th 2007.**_

It was the end of what had seemed to John to be a very long week. They'd all taken turns watching Andy Goode at some point and Cameron had even met him once for lunch in a park near his work. From this they had additionally learned that he was still working alone and that his machine's erratic problem solving was not restricted to chess-playing.

Cameron had succeeded in booking the following two weeks off work for her and John. Judicious use of her flirtatious charm and a certain amount of leaning over the supervisor's desk with plenty of cleavage on display probably helped get over the lack of notice.

The prospect of a fortnight away from the drudgery should have invigorated John, but knowing that it was unlikely to involve anything as simple as lying on a beach sipping cold beers meant that he had nothing to look forward to. He dropped his backpack on his bed, then went back to where Cameron stood operating the laptop. As per the night before, Derek's location was still the old warehouse in Van Nuys.

"Let's go."

"Now? It's late; aren't you tired and hungry?"

"That can wait, this can't," John said, looking determined. Cameron accepted that immediate action was required, but she thought that it could be handled by her alone. John disagreed. "I've got to be there; it's personal," he said.

"That's what Derek said about Andy Goode," she pointed out.

"Yeah, well... It really is personal for me."

"In what way?"

"I can't say. It's..."

"Personal?"

"Yes."

Cameron considered that. "Partners share information; does that mean we aren't partners anymore?"

John shook his head. "No, not at all. Some things just aren't for sharing. Didn't Future-Me hold stuff back from you?"

"I am beginning to discover that to be the case."

"I'm sure you haven't told me everything either."

"About what?"

"I dunno, but you have been vague about stuff; I'm sure you've straight-up lied at times." Cameron bristled slightly; John caught her change of mood. "So you have? Well, shouldn't be surprised..." He slumped slightly and turned back to the laptop.

"Only when necessary," she said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder.

He looked at her. "And that's something you decide, huh?" Cameron nodded. John closed the lid of the laptop. He took a deep breath, then it let out deliberately noisily. "Time's wasting," he said, heading for the front door.

Cameron followed, as always. As she climbed into the Jeep, she confessed that she had lied about Andy Goode being out of sugar.

"Why?"

"I'm still experimenting with humor; you seemed to appreciate it earlier."

"Yeah, well, context is important."

They drove in silence the rest of the way to the safe house. Pulling up outside, it was clear that the old Ford was not parked in the immediate vicinity. Cameron exited the passenger side of the Jeep and approached the entrance. The door was locked, but she soon had it open with the spare key. Pushing it open quietly, she switched to night vision to see through the gloom. A quick sweep with all vision settings informed her that the warehouse was bereft of human life. John followed her in, on receiving her all-clear signal. When she clicked the lights on, he too could see that not only was Derek not there, but neither was Cameron's old truck.

"The bug?"

"Here," she called from the office. She was standing by the rickety desk, holding up a small object, much like she had the diamond which John had so casually gifted her the previous weekend.

"How'd he find it?" he said, taking it from her.

"A scanner, most likely," Cameron said.

John swore under his breath. Cameron ignored it; she'd heard the older John curse longer and louder.

"What the hell do we do now?" John said, raising both his hands and eyes to the ceiling.

Unsure if he was seeking guidance from a divinity above, as some humans were wont, asking her opinion or merely talking to himself, Cameron held her tongue. It was the wrong choice.

John whirled around, pointing at her. "You're no freaking help!"

She tried to mollify him. "I can keep a watch on Andy Goode, if you like. If Derek goes there, I will find him."

"Yeah, and take it in turns to shoot Andy!"

"You told me not to kill him, therefore I won't, unless he becomes a threat to you."

John looked at her. "Yeah, _well_. What you define as a threat ain't exactly what I do, right?"

Cameron decided not to perpetuate the argument. "We should go home." She walked past him, heading for the exit. When he failed to move, she paused and said, "I'll wait for you outside."

John made no show of hearing her. Looking around the warehouse, he noted that Derek's sleeping bag was missing. He didn't bother checking, but assumed that some of their food supplies and carefully-hidden ordnance would be absent too. He lashed out at an old, small, wooden orange crate. Satisfyingly, it disintegrated on impact with his boot.

After she had locked the safe house door, Cameron joined him in the Jeep for another silent journey. Once home, he plodded wearily up the two flights of stairs. He could have justifiably taken the elevator, but obstinacy prevented him from taking the easy option. He stood in the center of the room, ostensibly looking out the window but in reality brooding, while Cameron completed her usual security sweep.

"John?"

He ignored her, but she was having none of it. She put a tentative hand on his arm. He turned his head sharply, his face clearly showing the bitterness he felt.

"It is late. You are hungry, tired and upset, a combination that does not help you sleep."

"Really? Thanks, _mom_."

"Don't call me that."

"What?"

"You heard." Cameron walked off, heading straight for her room. She closed the door behind herself, quietly.

"What?" John was unsure of the significance of what had just transpired. She'd objected to being insulted, _But like, so what?_ He thought about just flopping down on his bed, however decided that a quick shower would take just enough of an edge off his anger and ease his muscles sufficiently that he would soon be asleep.

He tossed his dirty clothes in the corner of the bathroom, deliberately missing the wicker basket Cameron had bought and placed there to avoid such untidiness. He stepped into the shower without waiting for the temperature to equalize, knowing that it wouldn't take more than thirty seconds or so to become comfortable.

As he washed and scrubbed and soaked his grime and aches away, so his mind cleared of troubles. He toweled himself dry, then his hair as much as he could. After running a comb through it, he brushed his teeth. He checked his reflection in the mirror. _Yeah, definitely better combed back, _he thought._ She's right about that_. He looked for his shorts and tee-shirt, but they weren't where Cameron normally left them. _Of course, she's pissed at me_. He noticed the clothes he'd thrown off, so picked up and placed them properly in the basket. He wrapped the towel around his waist and went into his bedroom, digging his nightwear out from under the pillows. Having dressed, he stood outside her closed door, and knocked gently.

"Cameron?" There was no reply. "Cameron, I know you can hear me. I just wanna say sorry, _okay?_ I'm sorry."

He waited a moment or two, but there was still no answer from within the room.

"Look, I can understand you're upset: I act like a jerk so often, but that's gonna change. Will you come out? I wanna say something, but not through the door, okay? It's real important."

Still nothing came from the other side. _Man, can she hold a grudge,_ he thought, smiling to himself as he grasped the door handle.

"Coming in, okay? Let's talk..."

John was stunned into silence, on finding that Cameron's room was as empty as the rest of the apartment.

He took a deep breath to steady his nerves, then went over to the laptop. It didn't take long to activate the tracking program. The bug he'd left in the Jeep was still working, and told him in which direction Cameron was heading. He opened up another window to locate Derek Reese by his cell phone. Eventually the two windows converged into the same area of the map: Andy Goode's house. A double confirmation was provided by a check on Cameron's cell: it was inactive, which suggested that she didn't want him to know where she was.

Disappointed and feeling betrayed by both members of his team, John didn't waste time. Having swiftly come to the conclusion that it was time for him to leave, he quickly redressed and packed a bag full of essentials, including the contents of his bedroom safe.

He speed-dialed Cameron's number on his cell, but as anticipated got no answer, so he left a message. He then switched it off, rendering himself untraceable. The last thing John did was to shut down the laptop, then he left the apartment. He had lived in it for a much longer time than any other place in his entire life, but he didn't look back.

He got on the first bus headed north, changing when it reached its terminus, as he did with the next one, and the next, all the while maintaining the same direction. Speed didn't matter, just that he was anonymous and getting away from Los Angeles.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**Northern California: Saturday, October 13th 2007.**_

Eventually morning arrived, which found him waiting in a small town for another connection. When the nearest diner opened for business, he used the pay phone to call Charley Dixon.

"_Johnny?_ Hey, you know what time this is?" he grumbled sleepily.

"Yeah, sorry man. Look, I hadda split. Just wanted you to know, I'm okay."

Charley blinked himself awake. "You in trouble?"

"No, nothing like that. I just need to get away; things aren't working out so well," John said.

"With Cameron? You guys split up?"

Michelle Dixon was wide awake by now too. "They've split up?" Charley nodded. "That's a damn shame," she said.

"Look, it's no big deal; these things happen," John was saying. "Thought you oughtta know, is all. I'm fine, and I'll see you when I see you."

He ended on a cheerful note, but Charley knew him well enough to know that he was putting on a front, even down a phone line.

"Listen John, don't be a stranger, you here? Don't leave it another eight years, okay? You've always got a room with us."

Michelle nodded in agreement.

"Okay, thanks. I'm sorry I woke you guys up."

"Not a problem, son. Where you headed?"

"I'm thinking Canada."

"Hmm, interesting."

"Yeah. Gotta go."

"Okay, take care, and good luck, Johnny!"

"And you, man!"

The line went dead. Charley put the phone back on the hook.

"That's a damn shame," Michelle repeated herself.

Charley drew her closer. "Yeah," he agreed.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**Los Angeles, outside Andy Goode's residence.**_

As dawn heralded another Fall day, Cameron spoke, breaking the silence that had hung like an impenetrable curtain between them for many hours.

"I know who Andy Goode is."

Derek tried to speak, but his mouth was too dry. After a sip of water from a bottle, he cleared his throat, then started again. "Yeah, of course you do. We were all there in the house."

"The house?"

"Yeah: chained to the floor; the basement, creepy piano music."

"Piano music? _Chopin?_" Cameron asked.

"Chopin? How the hell would I know?"

"I don't know either. It was just a suggestion."

Derek turned to the cyborg, incredulous. "How can you not know? You were there!"

"Was I? I don't remember."

"I thought you remembered everything," Derek said.

"Our memories are scrubbed before reprogramming."

"So you don't know anything from before?"

"Some things came back to me when I repaired myself after defeating the Triple-Eight that was sent back to kill John in 1999. It left me confused for some time."

"Right."

"One day it might all come back."

"Right." Derek didn't want to be around on that day; he'd seen what happened when terminators reverted.

"That house you said we were all in?"

"Yeah?"

"Is that how you made me so quickly?"

"What do you mean?"

"The first day you were brought in to John's new headquarters, you drew a gun on me right away. Nobody's made me that fast."

"What about Connor?"

"John took a while; I won't tell you exactly how, as it might embarrass him," she said with a slight smirk.

"Not the kid: the General."

"Oh. Yes, well, he was different."

"And?"

"He made me very quickly, but he had more experience than anyone else."

"Right. But I made you because of the house."

"You'd seen me before."

"Yeah, you could say that."

"I tortured you."

"_Now_ you remember?"

"No, just an educated guess. It's what terminators do to gather information."

"It's sick, is what it is."

"It's nothing compared to what humans have been doing to each other for centuries."

"And that makes it all right?"

"No," Cameron acknowledged.

"You, or whichever one of you was in charge, left us alive, and the means to escape."

"That's unusual."

"Yeah. My thoughts exactly: '_That's unusual_.'"

"Really?" She looked at Reese carefully.

"Nope; I didn't get beyond '_Why?_' Then I got on with life; it's all we had."

"I understand," Cameron said.

"Do you? Truly?" Derek accused.

"Yes. You put the past behind you and moved on; it's what we do as well."

"Right..." Derek didn't like to think that he behaved in any way like a machine.

"Billy," Cameron said.

"What?" Derek thought he had missed a vital part of the conversation, but Cameron had merely guided it back on course.

"Andy Goode. In the future, you called him Billy Wisher. He was in your squad before I took you to see John."

"Yeah, Billy. How'd you know?"

"His fingerprints."

"Oh, right."

"We have to deal with him."

"You mean kill him."

"I promised John I wouldn't."

"Right."

"A promise is a promise."

Derek looked intently at Cameron, contemplating the recent hours he had spent in the close confines of the truck cab with her, far longer than he had expected he could take. She seemed to genuinely mean what she said, but then, that's what they did: lie convincingly. Either way, he couldn't tell. He shrugged and sighed at the same time. "Okay," he said.

"We should destroy the Turk though."

"Yeah, at least."

"We can start once Andy has left his house today. I suggest using thermite to ensure that all of the essential parts are completely destroyed. I can make it look as though an electrical problem is the cause: he has a lot of components that are being over-loaded."

"Okay."

"Have you any thermite with you?"

"Always; never know when it might come in handy."

"Perfect." Cameron turned away from Reese, back to Andy's house. "There he is, heading off to work."

Derek checked his watch. "It's still early."

"We should follow him, just to make sure, then return."

Derek agreed, starting up the Ford and carefully tailing Andy Goode to Cell Division. He was met at the store by the driver of a delivery van. The two then unloaded and started to unpack what appeared to be new point-of-sale display modules.

Satisfied that he wouldn't be going home anytime soon, Derek and Cameron went back to his house. After checking that it was otherwise empty, they quickly set to work. They managed to disappear discreetly before the quiet neighborhood had fully awoken on this typical Saturday October morning. Once the fire trucks and police cars had descended upon the road with their sirens blaring, its peace and tranquility was gone, just like Andy Goode's Turk.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

They met up again at the safe house, having taken different routes. As Derek emptied his backpack, Cameron switched her cell phone back on. It beeped.

"I've got a message. From John."

"Probably wondering where his coffee and cornflakes are..."

She gave Derek a withering look before putting the cell to her ear to listen to John's voice.

"_I wanted to say sorry for what I said, but you'd gone. I guess it was dumb of me to expect anything from you. You're probably killing the poor schmuck right now, but really that's a no-brainer, right? You're petulant and rash, like a child, but seeing as you copy your behavior, I guess you got that off of me, huh? There's nothing I can do about that now, so you and Batman there can go save the world or whatever. I'll just wait for the bombs to drop if you're not successful. Just don't come looking for me. Believe me, you'll never find me."_

John's words sank in. "_Don't come looking... never find me."_ It was likely to be true: if he stayed off the grid, she'd never detect him. He'd learned too many lessons from being discovered before to get caught ever again. She'd failed her mission, but more than that, she felt bereft.

Cameron snapped her cell shut, then turned to Reese. "I've lost him!"

Derek stared open-mouthed at her outburst. Gathering himself together, he asked her what was in the message. She turned the cell's speakerphone on and replayed the recording.

"This is all your fault," she said when it had finished.

"Mine? That's freaking rich!" he replied.

"You clearly are trying to kill Andy Goode, against John's wishes."

"For... Listen and listen good, you goddamn metal bitch! You know he's a threat, and we both know how you deal with threats. And 'John's wishes?' This isn't John Connor – he's just a punk kid."

"He is John Connor, he always has been; just not the John we knew. It's not for him to change to accommodate us, we have to adapt our perspective. Eventually he will grow into that man, but he doesn't have to be him yet."

"Nice speech, but it doesn't change the facts: he left because of something you did. Or didn't do. All that cozy domestic bullshit, you had him believing there was something going on, right? And you likely blew him off, so now he's off god-knows-where... _Ach!_ You mess with his head, no wonder he's gone off the reservation."

Cameron bristled slightly, but defended herself. "John does these things."

"Foolish, risky things?"

"Yes."

Derek contemplated for a minute or so, before reluctantly agreeing. "Yeah, he does."

"I've gotta find him," Cameron said.

"You think you can?"

"I can try."

"Well, good luck," Derek said.

"Thank you. I might need your help."

"Okay," he said slowly.

"We should go see Charley Dixon."

"Who's he?"

"Someone special to John. He says he's like a father to him."

"Hmm."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

Derek pulled up where Cameron indicated outside the Dixon residence in Sherman Oaks. Charley was out front, tending the lawn. He looked up warily as Cameron approached.

"Good morning Mister Dixon," she said.

"Morning," he replied.

"Have you seen John?"

"No."

"Has he been in touch?"

He looked past her to the black truck, noting Derek Reese at the wheel. "Yes."

"What did he say?"

"He seemed upset. I can see why," Charley said, motioning to the man in the old Ford.

Cameron glanced back, then addressed Charley again. "It's not what you think; he's a friend, helping me find John."

"Hmm. Maybe John doesn't want to be found."

"I know he doesn't; that doesn't mean he shouldn't be."

Charley sighed. "Sometimes you gotta let 'em go."

"I can't, Mister Dixon: I need him."

"So how'd you end up in this mess?"

"It's complicated."

Charley smiled ruefully. "That's what John said." He looked carefully at the young woman in front of him. "You two have something."

"Yes, we're partners."

"Well... Guess that's the modern way of saying it. I mean something special."

"We are unique."

"He's in love with you."

"Yes."

"And you?"

"I love him too," Cameron said.

"But you don't talk about it? What's that all about?"

"That's where it gets complicated."

"You've gotta find a way to uncomplicate it."

"I've gotta find him first."

Charley nodded. "He said he was headed for Canada."

Cameron frowned. "Anywhere specific?"

Charley shook his head. "Like his mother, he keeps things close to the vest."

Cameron agreed, then thanked Charley and headed back to the truck, where Derek noted her mood.

"I take it he didn't have good news?"

"No. John told him he was going to Canada."

"Yeah? I thought he'd head south, Mexico way."

"He can blend in better in Canada."

"He speaks the language like a native; darken his hair and get some sun, he wouldn't stand out too much south of the border either," Derek said.

"You think he's bluffing by leaving a trail that points north?"

"Or a double-bluff: he must know we'll assume he'd go south. Either way, it's like looking for a needle in a haystack." He put the truck in gear and moved off. "Two haystacks," he corrected himself.

Cameron squared her jaw, but Derek could see that she couldn't completely remove that air of despondency that hung over her like a shroud.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

**Monday, October 15th 2007.**

Cameron had spent two days going over any camera footage that she could retrieve from the city's law enforcement divisions, but she'd found nothing; John did indeed know enough to keep away from technological witnesses. Facial recognition software was no help when someone could obscure themselves with the simple addition of a ball cap and hoody top. He'd used cash, thus leaving no paper trail for her to follow. She'd been dissuaded by Derek from just heading north showing John's picture at every bus and train station.

"It's not a good idea to have his face plastered from here to the Arctic Circle: likely get him on the radar, and you know what that could mean."

"Okay." She did indeed know what that could mean. "What do you propose?"

"What do you guys normally do?"

"Power down until required."

"Right. Why not do something positive?"

"Such as?"

"Continue the search for Skynet. It can't just be Andy Goode; he told me there were ten, fifteen of those programmers."

Cameron contemplated for a minute or so, then went into her room. She returned brandishing a piece of paper. "I did come across this," she said, handing him a print out of an online news report.

"What does it mean?"

"A fire at Oakland docks has forced the diversion of a shipment of coltan to the Port of Los Angeles. The fire is suspected to be arson. It could be the work of a Skynet operative."

"Okay. So, what? We check it out?"

"Yes."

"Okay. When?"

"The ship docks at 5AM tomorrow."

Derek checked his watch. "Enough time for some sleep. Wake me at 03:00."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**Tuesday, October 16th 2007.**_

Having witnessed the offloading of the cargo, the unlikely partners followed the truck upon which it was placed from the docks to a warehouse in the northern outskirts of L.A. They parked up round the back and, standing on a dumpster, observed the goings-on inside.

The leader of the group wore a military uniform with the name 'Carter' printed on a chest tag. After he had assigned his men their tasks he dismissed them. Once alone, he lifted the last few crates of coltan onto the truck himself.

Derek exhaled softly. "It's a Triple-Eight. You recognize him?"

Cameron checked her database thoroughly. "No."

"He's short. I thought all you guys were big."

"I'm not big."

"Yeah, but you're a gir–"

"Yes?"

"Never mind."

"Please finish."

"I was gonna say: you're a girl terminator. Thing."

"Terminatrix?"

"Yeah, whatever." After a pause, Derek continued, "I can see why John is so easily fooled by you."

"Thank you."

"Whatever."

Carter finished loading the truck, then headed off in the direction his men had gone.

"That's a hell of a lot of coltan," Derek said.

"Enough to make approximately 530 endoskeletons."

"That's 530 too many."

"You wish to destroy it?"

"Uh, _yeah_..."

They agreed to wait and assess the situation further, rather than try to tackle the terminator head on, but impatience soon got the better of Derek. "What would John do now?" he asked.

"Future-John or present-John?"

"Either. Both. _Whatever_."

"Something risky. Or foolish."

"Like jumping in the back of that truck and seeing where it took him?"

"Yes, something like that," Cameron agreed.

Derek sighed. "Okay, let's do it."

He pushed his backpack through the window, then cranked it open a bit more and dropped down on to the warehouse floor, with Cameron following right behind him. They crept over to the truck, then jumped into the back. Cameron tugged Derek toward the front on hearing voices approaching. Peeking round the crates, she could see that there were two of them; like Carter, they were wearing military fatigues, though their hairstyles indicated that they were not current members of the armed forces. It was apparent that they were grouching about their boss. They parted by agreeing that they would see each other at the destination. One of them jumped in the back, while the other secured the tailgate behind him.

After the truck had been underway for half an hour, Derek signaled for Cameron to go one way around the crates, while he confronted the phoney soldier from the other side.

As Cameron poked her head round the corner, the man saw her.

"Hey girlie, how the hell'd you get in here?"

"I lost my dog. Have you seen him? He's called Toto."

"What the–?" Extremely confused, the man froze when he felt the barrel of a gun placed against his head.

"Nice and easy," Derek said from behind him. "Hands in the air."

Cameron moved forward and relieved the man of his firearm. "Where are we headed?" she asked.

"Dunno."

Derek jabbed his gun hard into the man's neck. "Wrong answer."

"He'll kill me if I tell."

"What, your boss?"

"Yeah, Carter."

"Hmm, well, she'll kill you if you don't," Derek said.

"So I'm dead either way? I don't see anything in it for me," the man shrewdly pointed out.

"You're right," Cameron said. "We'll let you live, if you give us what we want."

"She has ways of making you talk, without killing you. You may end up wishing you were dead, but you'll still be alive," Derek offered, continuing his 'bad cop' routine.

"'_Milton_.' Is that your name?" Cameron asked, pointing to the name tag on his chest.

He shook his head. "Mike."

"I'm Emily; he's Frank. Can you tell us where we're going? Please?" She smiled warmly.

Mike continued looking between Cameron and Derek, unsure with which one his future prospects looked best. Eventually he went with what appeared to be the sympathetic choice: the pretty girl with welcoming eyes, the 'good cop' out of his two interrogators.

"It's an old abandoned air-force base, north of Palmdale, out in the desert."

"Palmdale?" Cameron asked.

"Yeah, way north of it, beyond Lancaster, but you go past it on Route 14," Mike clarified.

"Right."

"That mean something to you?" Derek asked.

"No," Cameron lied; this wasn't the time for discussions about her past. She returned to her questioning. "What part of the base?"

"A decommissioned arms depot, I was told, but I've not been inside yet. I was just hired for this job, with the promise of some more work if I didn't foul up."

"Yeah well, I don't see much coming your way from this guy. I'd find another employer, or better yet, a completely different line of work," Derek advised.

Mike nodded his head in agreement.

Eventually the long, hot, bumpy journey came to an end inside a dark hanger. Derek grabbed the man's arm.

"Don't do anything stupid," he snarled.

Again Mike nodded in acknowledgment, but blinked furiously to remove the sweat that was now dripping into his eyes. The trio waited for something to happen, expecting someone to open the truck's rear door. Cameron cocked her head momentarily and frowned. Two shots rang out, causing all three to crouch low on the truck's floor.

"What's up?" Derek whispered.

Cameron crept up to the door, cranking it up until the lock halted its progress. She appeared to be listening intently, then pushed further until the lock snapped. She caught it in her other hand, while continuing to push up until the door was fully open.

"Carter has terminated the contracts of his other employees, but he did thank them for their service."

"What?" said Mike, confused.

"What is it with you guys and all this 'thanking' crap?" Derek asked.

"Politeness costs nothing," Cameron said. "Manners maketh man," she added.

"Right," sneered Derek.

Mike stirred between them. "What the hell?"

Derek smiled at him. "I'm like that too, sometimes." As he turned his gaze to Cameron, the smile vanished. "Get the bag," he ordered.

She was about to say something, but instead complied with his wishes, walking to the front of the crates. Their prisoner saw an opportunity to escape, and took it. He elbowed Derek in the face, then bolted for the door. He was out of the truck before either Derek or Cameron could react. They followed him, but ducked to one side, staying out of sight while Mike approached his erstwhile boss. Carter was standing rigidly facing the warehouse door, the unmoving bodies of his other couple of cohorts lying off to one side.

On seeing them, Mike rushed toward Carter. "Hey man! I want out and I want my money, now!" he yelled. Carter stood as immobile as a statue, apparently ignoring his employee. "Hey, hey! I'm talking to you," the man shouted angrily.

As he got within reach, Carter suddenly turned around and grabbed his henchman by the throat, lifting him clear off the ground. Despite the distance, Derek clearly heard a sickening snap before the man's struggling ceased permanently. Carter tossed his corpse to one side, where it landed on top of those of his former colleagues, then walked over to a control panel at the front of the warehouse.

"Jeez, snapped his neck," Derek whispered bitterly.

"It is an effective method," Cameron replied, equally quietly.

Derek shot her a look. "We've gotta take him out. What's he doing?"

Before Cameron could reply, a siren went off and the doors to the bunker began to slide noisily together. Carter moved away from the controls and took up a central position in front of the vast concrete blast-proof doors. Cameron observed him carefully for some minutes, before voicing her conclusion.

"He has gone in to stand-by mode. His mission is complete, so he's powered down until he is threatened again, or he is summoned."

"By Skynet?"

"Yes. Going by these blast doors, that will be after Judgment Day. This will be a stockpile: coltan is rare in 2027."

"Yeah, and I'd like it to stay that way. We oughtta get rid of him and all of that stuff. And I don't wanna be stuck in here with two goddamn terminators until Judgment Day."

"What do you propose?"

"You fight him, I'll drive the truck out."

"I may not be able to defeat him."

"Okay then, just hold him up long enough for me to get the truck out."

"I don't see anything in it for me."

"Huh! You want me to fight him?"

"The thought had crossed my mind."

"Funny. Got a better plan?"

"I'll sneak past him and open the door, while you get in the truck. I'll stick one of the C4 charges in his pocket, then throw him as far as possible. That should disable him and give us both the chance to get away," Cameron said.

Derek acknowledged that her plan was sound and passed her one of the blocks of C4, complete with timer. "Set it for five seconds," he advised.

She nodded, accepted the bomb, then crept out of cover towards the compact terminator. As she got close behind him, she zeroed in on the bunker doors' control panel. There was a slot for a key, but it was empty. Tip-toeing round Carter, she saw a key hanging from a chain around his neck. Quick analysis made it a distinct probability that it was the necessary key. Initiating the timer on the C4, she grasped the chain whilst also pulling Carter's jacket slightly open; she dropped the bomb inside then grabbed him with her other hand and flung Carter as far away as she could. The C4 charge ignited as he crashed into a pile of metal oil drums, its power amplified by the chemicals contained therein, blowing him apart. Cameron ran up to check on his condition, followed by a wary Derek Reese.

Carter's face had been blown half off, and his torso sliced in two. The lower half lay uselessly on the floor, but the upper half raised itself up on its hands and dragged itself towards Cameron. As she got close Carter snatched at her leg, but she deftly evaded his hand, landing a heavy stomp on his neck. His metal head crashed on to the concrete floor with a resounding ring. To Derek's surprise, Cameron landed blow after blow on Carter's skull with her boot. Looking at her, he could see what appeared to be genuine anger on her face. Just as he had been startled by her despair on discovering that John had left her, so this apparent act of vengeance cut him to the quick. The destruction of a Triple-Eight always brought him satisfaction, but a cyborg apparently feeling the same way seemed wrong to him. But then John always said she was different: to him that was good; Derek wasn't so sure. What he was sure of though, was that he was glad she was on his side.

"Cameron?" he said.

She turned to him. "Yes?" she snapped.

"I think we're done." He looked down at the crushed skull.

Cameron followed his eye line. "Oh."

"We should burn it," Derek said, withdrawing a can of thermite from his backpack.

"Yes." Cameron gathered all the disparate pieces of Carter together in one pile then stood back as Derek first sprinkled the white powder, then dropped a lit flare on them.

They both stepped back as the metal went up in flames, giving off an intense heat. Derek noted that Cameron's expression had returned to one of indifference, her default face. When the fire had burnt itself out, she picked up Derek's backpack and twirled the bunker door key on its chain.

"Let's get out of here."

"Yeah," Derek concurred.

He got in the truck and started it up, while Cameron opened the blast doors. When the space was wide enough, he drove through it, with much crashing of the gears. Once through, Cameron set the doors to close, taking the key with her. She tossed a couple of the C4 charges into the piles of chemicals and crates for good measure. As the doors clanged shut behind her, she heard the muffled explosions.

She walked up to the driver's side of the truck cab. "I'll drive this, you take that Humvee," she ordered, pointing to it. Reese looked taken aback. "The clutch and gearbox won't last long enough to get this to the coast if you drive," she clarified.

"Okay," Derek said, stepping out. "We gonna dump it in the ocean?"

"With this amount, it's the easiest option."

"Good call."

As she swung behind the wheel, Cameron saw a sign on the wall of the bunker and pointed to it. "Depot 37. This is where I'll be built. Or was. Me and many others."

Derek stopped in his tracks. "But not now?"

"No, not now."

"That's one for the Resistance then," Derek smiled.

"Yes, one for the Resistance."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

Later, after Cameron had sent the truck and its cargo of coltan hurtling into the Pacific, she joined Derek in the Humvee for the long drive south. He raised a point that hadn't come to him immediately, but was now troubling him.

"How come you remember Depot 37? You said you were scrubbed."

"I was, but some things return occasionally, with the right stimulus."

"Right," Derek said warily.

Many hours passed before they pulled into the industrial area where the old F-150 sat waiting. They left the Humvee a burning wreck, then headed for the Van Nuys safe house.

"He'll be back," Derek said eventually.

Cameron turned her head. "How can you be sure?"

"He's John Connor. He's not gonna sit on his ass up in the middle of goddamn nowhere while there's work to be done."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**NEXT: Chapter Eleven** – A Wish For Something More._

_In which John gets his geography wrong and Cameron strikes a bargain with a tow-truck driver, then leaves everyone waiting._


	11. Eleven

**Chapter Eleven: A Wish For Something More.**

_**Los Angeles: Saturday, October 20th 2007.**_

Derek Reese sat cross-legged and bare-foot on the floor of the North Hills apartment cleaning his personal sidearm, a ritual he performed each and every day before sleep, more often if his mind was troubled. He looked away from his activity to the other end of the room, specifically the table in the kitchenette, at which sat the cybernetic organism calling herself Cameron Phillips. She appeared to be looking intently at a computer screen, but he could just about make out a screen saver operating. Perhaps she was counting the stars?

He was still uncomfortable in her presence, but in the last few days he'd been shown a different side to Cameron. John Connor's abrupt departure had done something to her; exactly what, he wasn't sure, but her responses had to be real – why fake them, with nothing to gain? She didn't need him to find John and certainly didn't need him hanging around insulting and threatening to kill her. It didn't pump his ego to know that she was merely tolerating his presence, but it didn't stop him making another attempt at conversation.

"If he doesn't come back soon, we're gonna need some money," he said.

The silence continued. She hadn't moved at all in the time he'd been watching her.

"Are you awake in there? Sometimes it's hard to know if you're in standby or just sulking!"

"I don't sulk."

"_Ah-ha!_ It lives!"

Cameron turned her head to face him. "It's easy for you, the waiting."

"I was gonna say the same thing about you."

"Perhaps you should go back to drinking your beer and watching mindless television."

"We're outta beer."

"So go get some."

"We're outta money."

"You mean you're out of money."

"You've still got some?"

"Yes. We go out to work: we earn our wages in a parcel depot, if you recall. We are very frugal and have saved a reasonable sum."

"John didn't touch it?"

"No. It would have made him traceable in some way."

"So you can access it?"

"Of course: we have a joint checking account."

"Damn, you two _are_ tight."

"Not tight enough, it would seem."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**Somewhere Else: 2200hrs.**_

Sarah Connor sat perched on the end of the bed, looking down on her sleeping son, as she had done so many times before. He stirred, then blinked furiously at the vision.

"What are you running away from, John?" she inquired.

"I'm not running away, Mom."

"Seems like it to me."

John snorted. "You always wanted me to run. Isn't that what you always told me?"

"Yeah, but not from your destiny."

"I'm not."

"Oh of course; you're running away from _it_."

"It?"

"The machine. The cyborg."

"Erm, _'You see a machine, and you run! Do you hear me John Connor? Run!'_ Recognize any of that?"

"Sure, but this one is different."

"How?"

"Well, you've told me before she's special."

"No, I told Charley."

"Right. At least you're keeping track. Still, you sent her back. You had some reason. You must need her, or you thought you did. Or would."

"You've changed your tune."

"Not really – I'm merely being practical. You need her to defeat Skynet. If you use all of your resources properly, you can actually do something here, change your future."

"Resources? Derek and Cameron? Yeah, right! They both have their own agendas and they don't coincide with mine. They don't follow me; I'm no leader."

"So you came here to sulk and lick your wounds. Feeling sorry for yourself?"

"No, I came here to have a vacation. Then I'm gonna get ready for the war. It's coming and there isn't a damn thing I can do about it. If I'm supposed to lead everyone to victory, maybe it'll happen because I earn that right, by actually fighting the war. Having _them_ do everything for me isn't gonna impress anyone. And those two will likely end up killing each other, and anyone who gets in their way. They deserve each other."

"They are both products of the war," Sarah said gently.

"Aren't we all? Aren't I?" John claimed.

"Yes, you are. But this isn't what I was born to do; I had to change."

"Yeah well; I was born for this, and I can't change that."

"I'm truly sorry about that John; I did everything I could to save you from this."

"Yeah, I know. It's not like I'm not grateful."

"Maybe you should show your gratitude by rejoining your family."

"Family? _Hah!_"

"They care about you."

"That kind of care I can do without."

"You've gotta stop making smart-ass comments, John."

"Oh, right. Disrespecting my mom."

"I'm not your mother. If I was, I'd be telling you to burn the metal bitch."

"Right."

"I'm a manifestation of your subconscious, brought on by the fever that has laid you out for the last two days."

"Oh."

"You need to get some fluids, then get your ass back home."

"Right. How'd you know it's been two days."

"I'm aware of things you aren't: that's why it's called the subconscious."

"Right."

"And the radio news came on five minutes ago."

John woke up for real. The radio was indeed on, the announcer completing the weather forecast for the next day.

_My subconscious is a smart-ass too_, he thought.

John forced himself up on to his hands and knees and crawled along to the head of the bed. He managed to silence the irritating noise from the radio, then picked up his cell phone from where it lay on the nightstand. He cursed the fiddly on/off button, then the PIN he had to enter to make it work. He flopped back down on the bed.

_That'll get her attention_.

He opened one eye to squint at the metal and plastic object in his hand. The technological miracle of miniaturization hadn't rung. He was sure at least two minutes had elapsed since he'd reactivated the cell, the mere act of which should have had Cameron calling him by now to check how he was.

_Jeez, can't even rely on a goddamn terminator these days_.

He'd been sure she would be on the line faster than he could speed-dial her.

_Maybe she doesn't care after all?_

He pressed her speed-dial number, _1_, and dragged the cell to his ear. He heard it ring once, then the cold and unwelcoming voice she reserved for unwanted callers came through the speaker.

"Hello."

"I'm sick. Come get me," he managed to croak out before collapsing.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

Cameron stared at her cell for a moment, as if deep in thought, then snapped it shut.

"That our boy?" Derek inquired.

"Yes," she replied.

"So, where's he at?"

She read off the laptop screen the location revealed by the Cell Division tracking program. "John is staying at the Hotel California, 461 Ocean Boulevard, Anaheim."

Derek stood up quickly and walked over to have a look at the laptop for himself. "Anaheim? Wait, here, in L.A.?"

Cameron once again turned her head to face him. "Yes."

"What's in Anaheim?"

"Disneyland."

"Seriously?"

Cameron nodded. "And the Hotel California." She pressed a few more keys and the hotel's website opened up in a new window. She quickly checked the layout displayed there, then rose from her seat for the first time in more than forty-eight hours.

"You going straight there?"

"Yes," Cameron replied. She opened a kitchen cupboard to remove the large first aid kit, then gathered some things into a backpack in her bedroom before brushing past Derek Reese on her way out.

"Need a hand?" he called.

"No." Cameron hesitated in the doorway. "Thank you," she added. Reaching into her backpack for her purse, she walked back to Derek and handed him five twenty dollar bills. "This should tide you over." She smiled briefly, then turned on her heels.

When she reached the stairwell she vaulted the rail and landed gracefully on the concrete of the ground floor, surprising old Mrs Thornton from the apartment below theirs, who was waiting patiently for the creaky elevator to make its way down from the top floor.

"Hello, dear!" said Mrs Thornton, recovering quickly. "Nice day for it."

Unsure as to quite _what_ it was a nice day for, Cameron nodded and smiled her agreement, as John usually did with Mrs Thornton's pronouncements. "Yes, it is," she said, then carried on at a trot to the waiting Jeep.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

Within an hour she had pulled into the hotel's parking lot and was showing the desk clerk the recent snap of herself and John as displayed on her cell phone.

"What room is he in?"

"What's it to you?"

Channeling righteous indignation, Cameron huffed: "He's my boyfriend. See that picture? That's me there, _right?_"

The female clerk leaned over her desk and peered closer, at the same time pushing her spectacles up the bridge of her small, freckled nose. "Oh, so it is. Nice pic. You look good together."

Easing back slightly on the aggression, Cameron replied: "Thanks. What room?"

"Looks like the guy in, um... Two, er... Eleven. Yeah, Two-Eleven, for sure."

Cameron recalled the floor plan from her memory banks. It was one of three rooms she would have chosen. "Can I see the register?"

The clerk eyed her up for a few seconds, then glancing to her left and right, spun the book round. Cameron could see that two days previously, John had indeed signed in to Room 211: she recognized his handwriting. It was no wonder she hadn't had any success tracing any hotel bookings under his previous aliases. 'Phillip Cameron' had not been one of them. She allowed herself a small smile, maintaining it for the benefit of the clerk.

"How many nights did he pay for?"

The woman tapped away at her keyboard. "Five. We offer a discount if your stay includes a weekend."

"You don't say," Cameron replied, feigning interest. "Do you have another key?"

"Yes."

Cameron sighed deeply to show her displeasure; again it was something John often did, and it seemed to work for him. "Can I have it? He called to tell me he's sick. I need to see him _now_."

The receptionist dithered, chewing her lower lip. "It's against regulations..."

"Yeah?" Cameron leaned forward threateningly. "Well, if he dies, I'm sure that's against regulations too. And I can assure you, you will regret it if he does."

The middle-aged woman behind the counter weighed up the options; in front of her was a girl who looked like she was ready to kill her, but more realistically would sue her ass for everything she'd got. On the other hand there was her boss, whom she rarely saw, and who was slow with both praise and pay rises.

"Here's the keycard," she said, handing it over.

"Thanks," said Cameron, snatching it from the receptionist.

She set off at a fast pace for Room 211, holding the first aid kit in her other hand. Reaching the room, she swiped the card down through the metal channel; on seeing the green confirmation light she pushed the door open slowly, all senses attuned to the highest level of alert. She was greeted by a dispiriting sight: John Connor was lying face down on the bed, his head hanging over the end nearest her. The cell phone, that he had somehow managed to activate and then call her with, lay on the floor out of reach of his outstretched hand.

Closing the door behind her, she ran to him and knelt before his face, swiping her left index finger over his neck. She lifted his head gently and looked into his eyes, but they were closed. Carefully she lifted the lid of his right eye; it was glazed and unfocused. He failed to respond when she called his name. Her scan informed her that he was badly dehydrated, his temperature was dangerously elevated and his pulse weak and rapid. More, she could hear that his breathing was labored. She had arrived just in time.

Further assessment showed that John was in an unhygienic situation, lying in his own sweat and waste on the bed, but she needed to attend to his dehydration urgently. She opened the first aid kit, removing firstly a tourniquet which she applied to his left arm, swiftly forcing a vein in his hand to enlarge; she swabbed that area of skin with alcohol, allowing her to insert a catheter, which she taped in place. Examination of a large band-aid adhering to his right upper arm and shoulder area revealed that underneath was a red, inflamed patch of skin, with some dark, crusty, dried blood. It didn't require an advanced learning chip to deduce that it was the site of a recently applied tattoo, and that it had not been treated as cleanly as she would have liked. Knowing that he was up to date with his tetanus shots, she decided that the source of his problem lay elsewhere, though it would not have helped his situation. Reaching back into the first aid kit she found a bag of saline. This she hung from the picture of an eagle in flight on the wall above the bed, aided by an unfurled wire coat hanger from the closet, then attached the drip tube to the catheter in John's hand.

Eventually, the saline infusion started to have some affect, and John briefly came round, to find an out-of-focus Cameron holding his face in her hands.

"It's okay, I've got you," she said gently.

He tried to reply, but drifted back into unconsciousness before she could offer him a drink. However, Cameron determined that he had improved enough for her to be able to clean him properly. She had at the earliest opportunity rung down to the hotel's lobby, requesting clean bed linen and towels to be left outside the door. They now sat on a chair ready for use. Being careful not to disturb John unduly, she removed the now empty saline drip from the catheter, then stripped off her own clothes to avoid them becoming soiled by contact with John. That done, she carried him in to the bathroom where she placed him in the shower stall. Setting the temperature at a lukewarm level, she set about cleaning him. Holding him up became unnecessary when he came-to again, but by this time she had only his hair left to clean.

"You've not been using the right shampoo," she said, running a hand through his damp locks.

John half turned to face her, but either thought better of it or was unable to move any further. "You can tell?" he mumbled.

"Yes," she replied, soaping up his crown with the shampoo provided by the hotel. Like everything else in the Hotel California, its packaging displayed an eagle motif. Analyzing its constituent parts, she decided it was not as effective as her own preferred choice of hair product, but it would do.

"Hmm," John sighed, before steadying himself by holding the safety rail tightly as she briskly took care of his greasy mane.

While she was rinsing the shampoo out, he slowly slithered down into a kneeling position, his leg muscles unable to support him any longer. Cameron followed him down, ready to apply conditioner. She knew it wasn't essential at that moment, she just felt that it would be better if she did.

With that last task completed, John had lapsed into sleep once more. Cameron turned off the water and assessed his condition again. She felt it safe to leave him for a few minutes, so wrapping herself in a towel, she went back into the bedroom, where she stripped the bed of all its sheets and pillow covers, rolled them up into a ball before placing them in a black plastic refuse sack by the door. She then grabbed the fresh supply of linen and set about remaking the bed.

Returning to the bathroom and John, she wrapped him in a large, clean, fluffy white towel. Carefully easing his hands from the safety rail, she lifted him once more and carried him back to the bed. He was still dehydrated and, being asleep, was unable to drink the electrolyte-enhanced fluids he would need. Nevertheless, the emergency first aid kit lacked the tablets necessary to make them up. She noted that while she must restock the kit at the earliest opportunity, it really needed a wider selection of component items. There was one more saline bag in the first aid kit, so she used that, then tended once more to the wound that was his new body art with a gentle application of calamine lotion, topping it off with a fresh band-aid.

Her next task was to clean the basin and toilet in the bathroom, which she finished off with a spray of disinfectant from the first-aid kit. With John's vitals gradually stabilizing in a substantially more favorable condition than when she first entered Room 211, Cameron decided it was time to take care of her own needs. Though she would have preferred fresh items, she redressed in the same clothes she had arrived in.

She next set about finding something for John to wear when he recovered. Checking his bag to see if his clothing might need pressing, she decided that what little there was required cleaning first, if not actual burning. Being reluctant to leave John at this critical time to gather her own bag of belongings from the Jeep outside, let alone head for a laundromat, she improvised by hand-washing a tee-shirt, some shorts, socks and pair of jeans with soap in the bathroom basin. She draped them over the glass door of the shower cubicle so that they could drip-dry, then took up her old station at John's side.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**Los Angeles: Sunday, October 21st 2007.**_

One side of the hotel room had a small balcony complete with a rail, over which she draped the still damp clothes. It was just past 7AM, and the first rays of a golden dawn were slicing through the gaps between the buildings opposite. It wouldn't take long for them to reach the items arrayed neatly on the black-painted metal rail. It occurred to Cameron that standing there as the rising sun set her body aglow might be an interesting experience, one she would like to try. But not today: John Connor needed her, so she would wait inside with him, wait for him to awaken. As she sat down beside him, she hoped that one day they could feel the sun rise together, for if it would be an interesting experience for her, surely it would be even more so if John were there too? _Time would tell_, she decided.

After another hour at his side, she looked for something to occupy her time. She recalled that John's cell phone was lying on the floor at the edge of the bed. As it had not been switched on for eight days, she thought it might need recharging. Despite not using it, John had taken his charger with him when he departed, so she was able to plug it into the only socket provided by the hotel, above the nightstand. The cell lit up, showing as its background image the same picture her cell did: the one where she was kissing John on the cheek. This did not come as a surprise because that was the intention of taking the series of pictures: to bolster the notion that they were really a couple; or so John professed.

Clicking through the files on the cell, she found the rest of the snaps they had taken. In most of them they seemed to look happy together. She wondered if John's poses were as full of artifice as hers supposedly were. She reviewed her memories of those moments, seeking to delve deep into her thought processes at the time. Once again she found it hard to draw a distinction between simulating happiness and actually _being_ happy. It was logical to assume that she responded in ways that she had become conditioned to over the years, but was there a difference between that and how humans felt? She knew that John felt happy, _was_ happy, _could be_ happy. He shared his happiness often, and also the opposite: his sadness and anger. When she detected that, was she feeling it too, or merely observing it?

She found another folder on John's cell. It contained only three pictures, but they were all of her, taken without her knowledge. One showed her reaction to licking an ice-cream cone back at Santa Monica pier. She had been engrossed in determining the component parts of the food, but was clearly displaying an expression that John had found captivating enough to preserve. The other two photos were equally mundane. One had been taken in their kitchenette: she was frying something; most likely a steak, she concluded. The other was from one of their weekly trips to the grocery store together. In this she was selecting from the shelf exactly the right carton of milk best suited to John's needs.

She tried to find a common link between the pictures. They fitted the category of everyday activities that a normal couple would engage in, but she doubted that many took photos of such things. She corrected herself: the internet was awash with humans blogging the trivia of their daily lives. It was not an activity she had noticed John doing though. Maybe it was her human-like expressions? Or the fact that she, a terminator, was doing such workaday acts?

One other factor the snaps had in common was that they had all been taken months beforehand, with his old cell. He had valued the pictures enough to transfer them to the new one she had obtained from Andy Goode's store, Cell Division.

She would ask John about that when he woke up – but quite a long time after: he wouldn't likely be in the mood for such trivial chit-chat right away. Which was another problem that needed her attention. She would need to determine his mood straight off and respond accordingly. If he was still upset with her, despite calling for her help, she would need to tread carefully. It might mean letting him vent all his rage and frustration on her. Or maybe she should stand up to him and argue her corner?

_Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, _she thought, as she put the cell back down on the nightstand. _Humans are complicated. And John Connor is a very complicated human._

_**# # # # # # # #**_

At 10AM John was still peacefully asleep, so Cameron went to check on his freshly-cleaned clothes. They had completely dried, but for the thick seams on the jeans which had escaped the direct rays of the sun and with no breeze to speak of, were stubbornly refusing to dry.

Having discovered an iron and fold-out board clamped to one wall of the hotel room, she set about pressing the shorts, jeans and tee-shirt. Even though it did not bother her physically if her own clothes were stiff and wrinkly, she still preferred them with the creases smoothed out. Another of her odd peccadilloes? John certainly preferred his clothing ironed, more so if someone else did it for him.

That task complete, she then rooted through John's bag once more to see if he had the stash of diamonds and cash, noting contentedly that most of it was still present. She found an unusual set of keys. They were old, but she had never seen them in John's possession before. They were not the originals, but copies that had been cut, so partially disguising their actual usage. Another matter to raise with John when the time was right.

John now had a set of clean clothes to wear, but they weren't quite up to her usual exacting standards. She hadn't brought along additional outfits for him in her hasty grab of otherwise essential items from their apartment, but recalled seeing a clothing outlet a kilometer up the block, the end of which housed a small grocery store. Additionally, next door to that was a pharmacy. Between the two of those, they would provide the vital nutrients he would need when he woke up.

For exactly an hour she debated whether or not to step out, firstly to gather her bag from the Jeep and secondly to acquire from the local stores those items she deemed necessary for John. Against the fact that she would be in a position to offer him restorative liquids, solid food and fresh clothing, was the possibility that he could wake and find her gone again. Sitting beside him on the bed with one leg tucked under, she held his right hand between both of hers.

"Difficult choices: if this is what being in love means, it sucks. Totally," she said.

John did not stir. His vital signs were encouraging so she took the decision to go. John took risks all the time, and it seemed to pan out for him. She slowly put her boots on, all the while watching him carefully for the slightest variation in his now regular breathing. Still stable, he slept on, seemingly peacefully.

Cameron collected together the items she thought necessary for her expedition: firstly, her Glock handgun, which she tucked into the back waistband of her jeans. She would need her black leather jacket to cover its tell-tale bulge, but the pockets of that already contained her small purse, cell phone, Jeep keys and the hotel keycard, the other things she deemed essential to her mission. Before leaving, she kissed John on the forehead, something she'd seen done often in movies and TV shows by persons to a loved one.

"I'll be back soon, I promise," she said, though she knew he couldn't hear her.

Talking to unconscious or sleeping people was another strange human behavior portrayed in dramas. She decided that it must give comfort to the speaker, though it didn't do anything for her. Or did it? She would know that she had said it, even if nobody else did. It was an immutable fact, that could not be taken back or erased; much like saying 'I love you.'

She decided to leave John a note just in case, leaving it on the nightstand where he'd be sure to see it. She left the room backwards, only the closing door cutting off her view of her partner.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

John Connor woke at 11:20AM. His head was still fuzzy, and his mouth felt like it was as dry as a desert in a drought. He looked around him, feeling and smelling the clean sheets. On top of everything was a subtle scent: Cameron's perfume. She didn't wear it often, but he knew it had to be part of some plan; she never did anything without working it all out in advance. Not that everything worked out for her.

So that weird dream where Cameron answered his distress call was real after all? _Crap!_ She'd seen him naked again, and worse: covered in his own vomit and filth. He could feel a headache coming on. She must have put the IV in his arm, he reasoned, pulling the tube from the catheter. He got up and started looking for clothes. He tried to prevent an involuntary smile when he found the neatly pressed and folded pile Cameron had left for him on a chair. He wondered where she was. _In the bathroom?_ _No, surely not_...

He grabbed a pair of shorts and called out to her: "Cameron?"

At that moment the room door opened and just as swiftly closed. Standing there was the object of his query, carrying a backpack and a plastic grocery bag and wearing the biggest smile he'd ever seen from her. She dropped the bags and uncharacteristically ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck. Reaching up on tip-toe, she planted her lips on his, determined to let him know exactly how pleased she was to see him again, with as much warmth and passion as she could muster.

Her tongue searched out his as it had done once before, but this time there was no response. His arms did not embrace her, his body did not welcome her. She opened her eyes. Even at that distance she could focus clearly; good enough to see that John's eyes were open too and that he was not looking at her, but at some distant object on the far wall, most likely another cheap eagle print.

She pulled back, trying to move into his direct line of vision, to force him to look at her, acknowledge her. She looked quizzically at John, who also had a curious expression upon his face.

"Hmm," he said, licking his lips. "It's totally amazing what Skynet can do; I mean _nothing_ is beneath its notice. The consistency of your tongue, for instance: smooth on the underside, slightly rough on top, and so flexible. And wet and warm, all at the same time. It's so... _real_." He still appeared to be looking right through Cameron as his tone and expression gradually changed, to one of complete indifference. "Maybe it wants to replace all of us with things like you: perfect slaves that will live for ever. What do you think?"

"John?" Cameron was disappointed. John had awakened, but as she had predicted, he did not seem to be over his bad mood, and worse, her demonstration of affection had not impacted successfully.

"Yeah, Skynet is creating a better human than we can! Well, I guess that makes sense, if a human made Skynet, the ultimate machine, then why wouldn't it make the ultimate human? It's totally creepy though, that it's studied every little facet of us, in such fine detail, that you can kiss like that."

"_John?"_

Ignoring her, he carried on with his monologue, becoming deadly serious. "And all this _just_ to kill humans. Freakin' amazing."

"John," she said again, but quietly this time, barely more than a whisper.

He turned his head slightly, finally focusing on her. "Yeah?"

"Are you still mad at me?"

"Me, mad at you?" he said, frowning. "Now, why would I be mad at you?"

"Because I let you down."

"Oh, yeah. Well, never mind that. We've got work to do, right? What's been happening?"

"Derek and I intercepted a shipment of coltan destined for a Skynet stockpile and destroyed both it and the Triple-Eight gathering it."

"That's good," John said, begrudgingly. "You killed Andy Goode yet?"

Cameron frowned. "Andy Goode is alive, though we did destroy his Turk."

"Okay." John turned and began to walk away.

"You're still pissed at me," Cameron observed. John's shoulders slumped as he stopped in his tracks. She could sense that he was still smoldering with repressed anger. Approaching him cautiously, she gently stroked his light beard. "You haven't shaved," she said, noting that he didn't flinch away from her touch.

He squinted slightly. "Well spotted. I see your powers of observation and tendency to state the obvious are still intact."

Ignoring his acidic tone, she continued optimistically, "But at least you have been brushing your teeth."

"_Ah!_" He ran his tongue around his teeth. "The awesomeness of cyborg sensors never gets old," John replied, remembering their recent kiss and her copious warnings that his future-self suffered from poor dental health, most likely contributing to his difficult moods.

"Yes," she smiled.

John scratched his stubble. "Hmm. Well, shaving wasn't really a priority."

"No," Cameron said. She decided her comment needed further embellishment. "I wasn't being critical, merely making an observation."

"Oh."

"Yes, and it makes you look more handsome. Rugged."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Okay, well... Thanks. Can I put my shorts on now?"

Cameron stood back, maintaining eye-contact while he pulled them on. "Of course. I cleaned your clothes up as best I could, but I bought some new ones just now. Would you like them instead?"

"What's with the heavy dose of perfume? You trying to impress me or something?"

"Or something: I've not changed my outfit for three days. I washed myself in the shower when I cleaned you up, but it's not the same if you don't put on fresh, clean clothing."

"Right."

"Are you disappointed?"

"That you haven't changed your booty shorts for three days? Humungously," he said with plenty of sarcasm.

Cameron's lips twitched. "No. That I didn't wear the perfume for your benefit."

"Oh, but you did: you'd smell otherwise," John said, smirking.

"You really are an asshole, John Connor," she replied, deciding that it was time to speak her mind.

John shrugged, but he felt suitably chastened, and looked away. Perhaps he needed to make a conciliatory gesture? She had come to his rescue after all. "Thought you might be wearing one of my shirts," he said, thinking back to the previous Christmas and many other occasions since.

Cameron wasn't prepared to give ground yet. "You obviously haven't smelled them."

John sighed. "I used to be good about all that cleaning and washing stuff. Gotten too lazy, relying on you all the time."

"So it's my fault that you're a slovenly pig?"

"I didn't say that. Jeez, you're on a roll, aren't you? You been saving this up while I was away?"

"Are you saying that I should be meek and docile, waiting on you hand and foot, like a slave?"

John stood mouth agape, stunned by her accusation. "No... Of course not! Why would you think that?" he asked. There was a hint of despair in his voice now, not anger.

"Because you treat me like crap."

He looked intently at Cameron. She seemed to be on the verge of anger, but at the same time upset, just as he was. "I dunno what to say," he replied.

Her mouth twitched again. After what seemed to John like an eternity, she spoke: "I got something from the drugstore. You should drink it."

Cameron turned back to the bags she had previously dropped without a thought. She made up a drink of essential elements to replace those lost to his illness and handed it to him. He smiled his thanks, then drank the foul-tasting liquid, trying but failing not to grimace. Meanwhile at the end of the bed Cameron laid out the new outfit she had purchased, alongside those she had cleaned, gesturing for him to make his choice from either pile. Then she took up a position at the window, gazing up and down the block. Those direct rays would have to wait for another day; maybe another lifetime. She turned her head to look upon John as he weighed up his options.

"I do it because I love you," she said.

John paused momentarily in his selection. He seemed to be about to say something, but he kept his silence. He still felt extremely tired and it suddenly caught up with him. He flopped down on the bed and looked over at Cameron, but she had returned her attention to the goings-on outside the room. He passed out again.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

John woke up, still sprawled on the bed.

"What time is it?" he asked between yawns.

"14:37."

"Right. Anymore of that stuff... the drink?"

Cameron walked over to where she'd placed the constituent parts and mixed up another batch with water from the faucet in the bathroom. She passed it to John, who drank it in one go, again pulling a face afterward.

"I'm wasted. What the hell's wrong with me?"

"I suspect that you have contracted a norovirus," she said, returning to her observation post at the window.

"_What?_"

"Food poisoning. Have you had anything unusual in the last seventy-two hours?"

"Well, uh... I had some shellfish down at a place near the beach, day I got here."

"Did it taste off?"

"It was drowned in chilli sauce, so I dunno."

"I see."

John looked up. "You're doing that 'mom' thing again. Telling me off like I'm a kid."

Cameron swiveled to face him. "If you'd just consumed plenty of fluids you'd have been fine; you wouldn't have needed my help at all."

"Right." John held his head in his hands.

Cameron carried on regardless. "You called _me_. You wanted me to come get you."

"Yeah."

"So why are you bitching like a little girl?"

John looked up sharply. "What the hell?"

"It's time you made up your mind, John."

"About what?"

"Everything."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

Thirty minutes of silence later, John had had what he felt to be enough of the electrolyte-enhanced fluids so decided that it was time to go. He knew that ordering Cameron to leave would have no effect; likewise, telling her not to follow him. He just wanted to get out, get back to thinking for himself, thinking on his own. He packed his bag and headed out to the parking lot, shadowed by his erstwhile partner.

John fished around in his bag for a moment or two, before his hand emerged with the unusual set of keys that Cameron had discovered earlier. He walked up to a 1978 Volvo 245 station wagon and unlocked the driver's door, then threw his bag onto the rear seat.

Cameron looked at the Volvo. Its metallic blue paint work was faded and blistered in many places, and the dashboard had some cracks, doubtless from decades in the California sun.

"This is not as dangerous as the motorcycle," she posited.

"Or as exciting," John said.

"I prefer it."

"Thought you might."

"You bought it with me in mind?"

"No. I bought it because I thought it would be the last thing you would think that I would think of buying."

"Right."

"You look confused. Having trouble keeping up?"

"Windows '95 could keep up with that. I'm just slightly more advanced."

"Right. Windows 2027."

"Is that a joke?"

"Apparently not." John got behind the wheel and turned the engine over; it caught after a few desperate churns, belching out a thick cloud of fumes from the tail pipe. With an embarrassed grin, he waved her off. "See ya."

"Soon, I expect," Cameron replied. She watched as the antique wagon lurched into the late afternoon traffic, its cold engine alternately being over-fueled and starved by its faulty fuel-injection system. She climbed into the Jeep Grand Cherokee and proceeded to follow John at a distance of at least two hundred meters.

It took less than five miles for the Volvo to give up the struggle of transporting the future savior of mankind. Cameron pulled in behind it on the shoulder. Its hood was already raised, steam rising from the radiator and various fluids gushing onto the pavement below. John was standing at the front, looking down at the dead engine and scratching his head.

"You ought to get Triple A," Cameron suggested.

"Why, when I have Triple-Eight?" John laughed at his joke. Cameron didn't join him.

"I'm not a Triple-Eight. I'm way more advanced," she said.

Not for the first time, he detected a note of pride in her statement, despite the roar of traffic rushing past. It was in her expression and her eyes too. Or was he still just fooling himself?

Cameron joined him in looking under the hood, then suggested they get inside the relative safety of the Volvo's cabin. John reluctantly accepted; it was certainly quieter. "You agree it's junk?" he asked. She nodded affirmatively. "Crap!" John cursed. "Goddammit, that dude said it was reliable!"

"Something of this age?" Cameron said, gesturing around the thirty-year-old wagon's moldy, discolored and rotting interior.

"Yeah! _'German engineering'_ he told me. Last time I listen to a salesman..."

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"Volvos are manufactured in Sweden."

"So?"

Cameron prevented herself from letting out a sigh. "Sweden is not in Germany."

"So?"

This time she didn't bother hiding her annoyance. Her sigh was long, pointed and noticeable.

"_What?_" John snapped, not hiding his feelings either.

"You really ought to know your geography better."

"Yeah? Why?"

"The war is a global one, John; it is not just confined to the greater Los Angeles area. It is the battle for humanity's survival, and all people, no matter what their age, race, gender, creed or sexuality have their part to play."

"Right. Sounds like a speech from some pompous old fart."

"You made that speech."

"Right. Like I said... Um, Future-Me, huh?"

"Yes."

"Hmm."

"Sweden is in Scandinavia, the north-eastern point of Europe. They suffer very cold winters there, but have adapted to the harsh climate, even after Judgment Day. Though they are relatively small in number, they have resisted significant forces many times before. The extreme cold was not good for my kind."

"But Daddy Skynet would have found a way eventually, right?"

"Yes, eventually. It is probable that destruction of the arable land and pollution of the seas would have starved them out gradually."

"Yeah."

"But long before that Skynet would be defeated; the Scandinavians played their part by forcing Skynet to commit resources away from the major fronts, resources it couldn't afford."

"Good for them. Tell me, after the bombs dropped, was there such a thing as Germany? Or Sweden?"

Cameron thought for a while. "Technically, no."

"Right. So in the future, we're all in it together?"

"Yes."

"That's good. So it won't mean squat whether my car is German junk or Swedish junk?"

"Not then it won't."

"Right. 'Cause we agreed it's junk _now_. So let's go."

"I'll call for a tow truck."

"Why?"

"You can't leave it here: the authorities will ticket you."

"Okay."

Cameron dialed a number, speaking briefly to give their location and agree a time, then hung up.

"You got them on speed-dial?" John inquired.

"No. I read the Yellow Pages one night."

"Interesting."

"No, but it is useful sometimes."

"That wasn't a question."

Cameron shrugged and turned her attention to the direction from where the tow truck would eventually come, which it did more than thirty minutes later. Meanwhile, John removed his gear from the stricken car, placing it in the trunk of the Jeep. He watched in fascination as Cameron talked to the truck driver, negotiating a price. After much shaking of his head, the man nodded enthusiastically. Cameron's response was to whip up her tee-shirt; the tow-truck driver licked his lips slowly and lasciviously. He started to reach out his greasy right hand, but one look from Cameron and he thought better of it.

"Hey!" John shouted.

The driver looked disappointed as Cameron lowered her top, but proceeded to hitch a cable to the hook under the front bumper and then wind the old wagon onto the towing apparatus. With that raised, he jumped into his cab and drove off.

John joined Cameron in the Jeep.

"What was that all about?"

"What do you mean?"

"Flashing your breasts."

"Getting a discount. A one hundred percent discount," she said, starting the engine and setting off. "And it wasn't my breasts he saw. I'm wearing a bra."

"Irrelevant. You shouldn't be doing that."

"Why not?"

"We can afford it for a start, but... I mean, it's not right, flaunting yourself like that."

"Oh. You think I should reserve that for you and you alone?"

"No! I don't wanna see your junk either."

"Really?"

John gritted his teeth. "Look, it's about modesty, self-respect... You should know all this crap by now!"

"Why? Why should it matter? I'm just a robot, right?"

John shook his head. "Why do you say stuff like that? _Why?_"

"You know why."

John sighed deeply. "You disappoint me, Cameron."

"We all disappoint, eventually."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

Cameron drove sedately as usual, so John kicked back in the seat, planting his feet on the dashboard, something he knew she disapproved of. This time though, she said nothing. The position he had adopted quickly made him uncomfortable however; his cell phone was pushing against his hip bone, so he dug it out of his pocket. He realized that he hadn't checked it for messages. He found that there were many from Derek Reese. John listened to the most recent one, delivered in an angry tone.

"_I gotta tell you, John: if you don't come back soon, that cyborg's gonna drive me nuts!"_

Further investigation led him to one single voice-mail from Cameron, exactly a week on from his message to her.

"_I'm sorry. Please come home."_

John snapped the phone shut, then slowly opened it up again. He looked at the screen, which still displayed as its wallpaper the photo he had taken of Cameron kissing his cheek. He looked happy, and so did she. Momentarily, he wondered why she hadn't been the one to phone him the previous day. He imagined her sitting in front of the computer waiting for his cell signal to reactivate.

"So... Er, how have you been, this last week?" he asked.

"I've missed you. Otherwise I have been functioning adequately."

"Riiiight. Listen, how come you didn't call back, soon as I turned my cell back on?"

"I was weighing the odds of you being annoyed that I phoned too early against you being pissed that I didn't care enough to call first."

"That's a tough problem for a girl."

"It's a tougher problem for a cybernetic organism."

"Yeah," John acknowledged. Looking up, he was surprised to find that she was pulling back into the parking lot of the Hotel California. "Why are we back here? Thought you'd drag me back home."

Cameron parked the Jeep, then turned to face him. "Firstly, you've paid for another two nights and secondly, you don't want to come back home." John nodded sheepishly. "And thirdly, I said you need a vacation. So have one."

"Fine," John said, exiting the car.

As he swiped his keycard through the slot to unlock the room door he could feel Cameron's presence behind him; her scent wafting into his nostrils confirmed it. He marched inside, leaving the door open for her. She closed it quietly, then stood there serenely, waiting for his next tirade. She didn't have long to wait.

"You said you'd never leave me."

"It was just for one night."

"'Never' means _never_ in my book."

"I left you a note."

"What? _When?_"

"This afternoon. Didn't you see it?"

"No," he said curtly.

Cameron went over to the nightstand. She held up the note, handwritten in her neat, feminine script.

"Musta missed that," John muttered, shrugging his shoulders. He then decided to go back on the offensive. "Didn't you think to leave one before... last week, I mean?"

"No. You were in a foul mood and I thought I'd be home before you woke up."

"Why the hell did you go?"

"To stop Derek from killing Andy Goode."

"I thought I could count on you."

"You could. You can."

"I'd just told Derek that you'd never leave me. It was the one thing in my life I thought I could rely on."

"I wish you'd believe me: I didn't want to leave you. Tactically it makes more sense to terminate Andy, but you want to use his programming skills. I respect that, so I put aside my personal preference to stay by your side at all times."

"Well, that's real big of you, Phillips!"

"John, I'm sorry. I–"

"I don't care."

"I love–"

"Don't say it! Just don't say anything, understand?"

John paused to take a few deep breaths and also to take stock. He hadn't really rehearsed his argument, despite the constant churning over of their situation in his mind. The time he'd spent away hadn't given him the clear air he'd hoped for but there were more things he wanted to get off his chest.

"You say stuff like 'I love you' as if you mean it, but you don't," he accused.

"How do you know?"

"Because you don't even know yourself! You told me that when I asked you before... for crying out loud, Cameron! You don't think I'd wanna know if you were sincere, not just bullshitting me? You think I'd just leave it at that?"

"I don't know. I'm aware that our different natures, and the opposite sides we represent in the future war make things difficult for you, but–"

"But nothing! That's just one factor – there's a whole bunch of issues to consider, like should I be messing around when there's so much at stake? Should I even be involved with someone supposedly under my command?"

"Perhaps not."

"Yeah. And maybe I shouldn't waste my time worrying about someone who... some... thing, that can't love me back."

They stared at each other: John glaring, full of emotion; Cameron as passive as ever, but no less conflicted internally.

"Perhaps not," she repeated.

"That all you got to say?"

Cameron shrugged. She thought her deeds had spoken for her, but alas, it would seem not. What more could she say? How could she articulate something that was alien to her nature? Or was it? Was it part of what made her unique, an evolutionary step up from the Triple-Eight models? Was it not mere emulation, but actual feeling?

"I don't know, John. I don't have the answer to everything, you know that."

He nodded and turned toward the bathroom.

"But I'd like to find out."

John again inhaled deeply, though he knew it was a pointless exercise. It wouldn't clear his head. A gallon of caffeine and a ton of oxygen couldn't unscramble the mess his life was in. _Personal life_, he mentally corrected himself. _Ha! Who'd have thought I'd have a personal life to worry about_...

He went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Cameron moved to her favored observation post by the window, standing there like a silent sentinel, casting her gaze over the masses below.

After five minutes, she decided that action was required – she could no longer remain silent. She went up to the bathroom door and knocked twice upon it. She waited for a response. When none was forthcoming, she spoke through the door, rather than opening it.

"John, I'm sorry."

She heard him walk up to the other side, but he failed to open the door.

"Yeah; always sorry afterward," he said bitterly.

"At least I apologize – and I mean it."

The door flew open, revealing an angry John Connor. "What does that mean, huh?"

Cameron stood her ground. "You often treat me like crap, yet rarely acknowledge it or offer contrition after."

"What?"

"You heard."

"I'm not having this conversation. _We're_ not having this conversation," John said, slamming the door shut in her face. "I'm gonna have a shower," he said. "You can go... guard. Or whatever."

John stripped off then turned the shower on and stepped under the spray. He was just about to grab the soap when Cameron slipped in behind him. He knew it without seeing or hearing it; a slight drop in temperature, a movement like a gentle breeze as the door opened, then she was there. She placed her hands upon his shoulders and started to massage them, something she did so well.

"Why do you do this?" he pleaded in a whisper-quiet voice, as the water cascaded down onto his head, through his hair and onto her hands.

"You need it to relieve your stress," she replied.

He turned to confront her, his face now showing only a hint of anger due to his weariness. He was not just tired physically, but also mentally from the fight constantly going on in his head about his protector, and the verbal battles he had with her, like the one ongoing.

"No, I mean coming in here, like this. Why? You know it's not exactly gonna relax me. Are you trying to get a rise out of me, huh?"

"It would appear that I have been successful, if that were the case," she said, glancing down. John's cheeks reddened and he turned back to the wall, holding his face under the shower's spray again. "You do not have to be embarrassed or ashamed, John. There is nothing wrong about your feelings for me."

"_Go!_ Just... go. Please?" he begged.

"No. You need me; you want me. You should acknowledge that fact and move on," she said, resuming her ministrations to his knotted back muscles.

John tried to ignore her, to deny that her touch was working its magic upon him, but he failed dismally, which just made him more depressed.

He felt her lips brush against the nape of his neck and her hands move under his arms, reaching round to his chest. Her naked body pressed tight against him, her breathing causing her chest to push against his broad back, then release slightly, only to repeat the cycle mere moments later.

"John? _John?_" Her tone got more insistent, so he angled his head, moving his ear closer to her lips. "I love you," she said.

He slumped forward, his head banging against the off-white tiles, causing Cameron to hold him tighter, pulling him away from the wall. He resisted, spinning around to face her, the anger again clear upon his face. "Don't... don't say that! You can't just go around saying stuff like that, doing this, understand? You can't keep messing with my head, Cameron."

"I'm not," she said quietly, her eyes never wavering from his.

"I don't think you understand what you're saying. If you do, you're playing a game; a very dangerous game."

"I do know what I'm saying, and I know what it means. I'm saying that it's okay for you to love me."

"No, no... No! This is not happening! Get the hell outta here! Get the hell outta my life!"

"No. I will never again leave you, John. You have my word," she replied assertively, but he noted, with warmth. "I love you," she repeated.

John looked deep into her eyes, looking for something that would tell him this was not all a lie, a ploy, a trick. All he could see was... devotion, hope, life... Love? He grabbed her head, pulling her lips closer to his. As their mouths made contact he felt her body melt into his; a natural fit, as if built for that purpose. All thoughts of denial were driven from his head as he finally embraced his love mentally as well as physically.

It seemed to Cameron that his hands and lips were everywhere on her body, all at the same time. The readings her scans presented were off the chart. She was being overwhelmed by the sheer level of emotion and passion exuding from John. He had pinned her to the back wall of the shower cubicle when his lips returned to hers. Although she wanted nothing more than to continue their kiss, she broke it off, worried that the cycle of events she had triggered would escalate beyond what John would tolerate, what he would forgive. And there was another problem.

"Wait," she said.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**NEXT: Chapter Twelve** – Ever Fallen In Love With Someone (You Shouldn't Have)?_

_In which John & Cameron visit Disneyland, and there's more about socks. And other important stuff._


	12. Twelve

**Chapter Twelve: ****Ever Fallen In Love (With Someone You Shouldn't Have)?**

_**Los Angeles: Monday, October 22nd 2007.**_

Not yet dawn, she lay alongside him, propped up on one elbow, looking down at him while he slept. '_Him_' being John Connor, the future leader of the Resistance, the savior of mankind in The War Against The Machines. '_She_' being one of those machines, a cybernetic organism created exclusively to kill him. Somewhere along the way, something had gone wrong with that plan. Subsequently, she had been reprogrammed to serve the Resistance and latterly protect him, then was sent back in time to do the same for his younger self. But something had gone wrong there too. Well, quite a few things, but really the most important one was that he had fallen in love with her. And in her own way, she had fallen in love with him too. Things had been okay for a while, but then it all turned sour; it was the nature of close relationships to have their ups and downs, she knew that, but theirs seemed to have extremes of peaks and troughs but, she would admit, she had no prior direct experience of her own to call upon to make a meaningful comparison.

Now though, they were together again. She had corrected the course of their relationship, perhaps dangerously so, but once again had misjudged the depths of John's passion and was unprepared for it when he unleashed it upon her.

She had managed to say _"Wait"_ and he had complied, not because of her superior strength, but because he seemed to understand. She had expected him to fly into a rage as he stared at her from under the torrent of lukewarm water coursing down on them from the rose above, but he'd merely nodded, then turned around to switch off the shower. He'd guided them both out of the cubicle, then wrapped her in a big fluffy white towel before quickly drying himself. She noted that he had no longer been self-conscious of his nakedness, as he had been mere moments before. She couldn't tell if he was aware of it, but he carried himself differently, as though a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders; and perhaps it had.

As she'd stood assessing the dampness of her hair, deciding that it would need the use of the hairdryer, she had known that John was watching her every move. It had made her feel something. Uncomfortable?_ No. _Anxious?_ Yes_. What he thought was paramount, and that word seemed to sum up her condition. She had wanted to explain herself, but strangely didn't know where to begin. Straight talking was her usual modus operandi, but she had been curiously tongue-tied. She had mumbled an apology, and then tried to justify her actions. _"It's okay," _he'd said, with a smile. _"We're good. There's no hurry." _He had lifted her easily then carried her to the bed where he laid her down gently, just as she had done with him earlier. Finally, he'd extinguished the light and climbed into bed, where he stretched out beside her and soon went to sleep, holding her protectively.

He had slept peacefully through the hours of darkness. He'd had a couple of periods of REM sleep, when he'd been clearly dreaming, but it wasn't the fitful, panicky, nightmare-filled sleep of yore, when he'd wake up in a state of alarm, clutching her for reassurance, only to release her quickly and turn away in embarrassment. No, this night he had contented dreams, for though he still held her, he wore a satisfied smile.

With her free hand, Cameron traced a finger along his chest, through the strangely textured hairs that sporadically sprouted from it. She decided that John Connor was not a hairy human, although his face was currently at odds with that assessment. She'd told him it made him look more handsome, but in truth, she had only said it because she knew some women liked that sort of thing, and gambled that he would appreciate her more if she was one of those women. It didn't make any difference to her whether he shaved or not. She had made it a matter of great importance that he cleaned both himself and his teeth regularly, but this was for his benefit, not hers. _Or was it?_ She'd learned the hard way early on in her year in Red Valley, New Mexico that bad breath, body odor and poor grooming were something to be avoided in her guise as a human female, but there was something off-putting about a lack of personal hygiene. _Where did that come from? _Something that she'd picked up along the way or something else that had gone wrong? She added it to her growing list of those little 'things' she'd discovered about herself but couldn't fully explain.

"You get any interesting readings?"

"What?" she said.

"Play the tape back," John said, opening one eye.

"I didn't realize you were awake."

"Obviously."

"You're very good at pretending to be asleep."

"Yeah, something I picked up along the way. It's a neat trick, huh?"

"I'm sure. How are you feeling this morning?"

John stretched and yawned. "If your sensors can't tell, I'm feeling pretty damn good," he said.

"It will be sunrise in three minutes," she said, rising from the bed. She walked in her deliberate yet graceful way to the window, and drew apart the cheap, thin curtains, opening up the room to the light pollution that they had just about held at bay. Street lights that would soon be doused competed with the sliver of orange cracking the horizon in two.

Although she did not feel cold, she wrapped her arms around her naked body, in what she knew was a defensive position. There was no threat that she could detect in front of her, and she still felt no need to hide her nakedness from the outside world despite John's protestations on that matter. _Maybe I should_. Perhaps she wanted to hide it from him? If so, why not put on some clothing? She had no answer to her own questions; like so many others, they just confused her more. Rational, objective behavior was at the core of her being, the very essence of a terminator, and yet she was acting anything but.

John joined her at the window, placing his red plaid flannel shirt about her shoulders. She shrugged her arms into the sleeves, while he slipped his around her waist. She placed one hand on top of his, then he in turn placed his other on hers, trapping it between his warmth. The fingers of his right hand traced a clockwise circle around her belly button, a perfect simulacrum of the symbol of human birth. The thumb of John's left hand brushed in an anti-clockwise movement over the back of her covering right hand, giving her an unusual sensation as she followed every move. She couldn't decide what to do with her free left hand, which was now resting at her side, as usual. She wanted to return his caress, so raised it slowly to his left cheek. As she did so, he kissed the palm and let out a felicitous sigh. All was well between them it seemed, but appearances could be deceptive. His contentment failed to transfer itself to her.

She leaned forward slightly, loosening John's hold on her, then ran her now free hands through her hair. She hadn't left John's embrace all night, and so it had dried uncombed and was now unkempt. It would need to be dealt with, as would her makeup, if they were to venture out in public that day. _Why? Because I don't want to stand out, or have I become vain?_ This was another minor issue, she knew, but symptomatic of the greater conflict going on inside.

The rising sun had just peeked out from behind the building opposite; soon its rays would begin warming the window. She lifted a hand to the glass, splaying out her fingers, sensing the different temperatures throughout the thin pane of glass, waiting for that moment, that might be merely an instant, before the warmth from her fingers was overwhelmed by the heat of the sun.

The street lights below blinked out in unison, making it seem as if they had never been on. A truck pulled up at the curb opposite with a long squeal of protestation from its brakes. A whoosh of air as its parking brake was applied was followed by the cab doors opening. The driver and his associate moved to the rear and began removing brown cardboard boxes, which they stacked up in the doorway of the office block nearest to them. When it appeared that they had completed their task, the driver rapped heavily on the glass door. After almost a minute an angry-looking security guard appeared. There was much pointing at signs declaring the building's opening hours from him, countered with waving of schedules by the driver. Eventually they reached a settlement, and the guard opened the door for the two men to shift the boxes inside. That done, he signed their note and waved them on their way. For their part, the two workmen departed after their diesel engine shook itself back into life with a belch of soot and a continuous rattle that grew quieter as it moved farther away, progressing along Ocean Boulevard.

"And how are you feeling?" John asked, just as the sun's rays began to warm their bodies.

She knew he was waiting for her to answer, but she perceived no impatience; he cared about her and, it seemed, was prepared to wait. She refocused on her fingers, their touch on the window, avoiding the distractions of the man in whose arms she stood. Finally she replied to his question, but with one of her own, as she so often did. "Feeling?" she echoed.

"Yeah, feeling," John said. "Something's happening to you. Wanna share?"

_Not really_, she thought, but she knew he shouldn't be put off any longer. And maybe it would help her come to some conclusion. _A problem shared is a problem halved, according to the proverb_, she reminded herself. Where to begin though? As had occurred the night before, she found herself unable to be her usual forthright self. "It seems so real, it's like I can almost touch it," she whispered.

"I don't understand."

"It's like looking at your reflection in the mirror. You reach out with your hand; as it gets closer, you think you're gonna touch the warmth of someone's hand, but all you feel is the cold glass of the mirror." A tear escaped her right eye, then another.

John pulled her close again, enveloping her with his warmth. He felt the wetness of her tears, cold upon his own cheek as it pressed against hers. "Hey, it's okay... don't be sad. If this is all there is, we can live with it."

She turned around to face him, to see for herself that truth was reflected in his eyes, corroborating his words. She knew when he was sad, and he looked sad now, but more than that, there was optimism and hope. And something else was emerging, a glow that made him appear as though he shone with a luminescence to match the rising sun behind her: he was in love – still in love with her. She desperately wanted to reciprocate.

John noted her reaction: she was sad, so very sad. Holding her in his arms, he could tell it was genuine. If she could feel sad, could she feel something else? Something more? It seemed to him that she loved him more than anything, more than anyone else could. _It should only be a matter of time before all the pieces of the puzzle click into place_, he told himself, but before that, there were some essential daily rituals to be performed.

"We should get dressed, find something to eat, then decide what we're gonna do with the day," he said, wiping her tears away with his thumbs.

Cameron pulled away slightly, self-consciously running her fingers through her hair once more. "Yes, I must look a mess. I need to sort this out, but if you want to go first?" she offered, gesturing to the bathroom.

John smiled. "I think the time for taking turns has passed, don't you? There's not much to hide any more."

Cameron agreed. "What about the bickering: is that over?" she said.

"Hell no!" exclaimed John. He caught the look of disappointment on her face. "We're not gonna agree on every little thing, are we? So we're gonna clash; doesn't mean we don't love each other."

"Oh." Cameron was marginally more optimistic.

"Yeah, I mean, I used to argue all the time with Mom, didn't mean I loved her any less. Or that I didn't respect her opinion."

"That's good."

"Yeah, she couldn't help being wrong all the time..."

"John Connor!" She admonished him in a way that made him wonder if she had not, after all, met his late mother at some point.

"What? What did I say?" he said to the retreating back of the cyborg, who shut the bathroom door a little too firmly. _Wasn't a slam though_, John told himself, smirking happily. And she'd slipped his shirt off somewhat seductively, leaving it draped over the corner of the bed.

The day before, in her typically efficient yet caring way, she had laid out a selection of clothing for him, from which he now chose the newly-bought items but added his own shirt, still warm with residual heat from Cameron. It smelled of her, something that was now comforting rather than annoying to him.

As he dressed, he reflected on the tumultuous events of the previous night. A situation he'd been dreading for months, that he'd put off on endless occasions, had finally come about, and yet here he was, hale and hearty, the world hadn't stopped spinning, the sun had risen in the sky, another day had offered itself up for him to conquer. _What was I afraid of all that time?_ he asked himself. _Giving everything, but getting nothing in return? Yeah_. He reflected on when, in a blink of an eye, things had changed irrevocably between them, truly a 'Rubicon' moment...

_He had been almost totally consumed with passion after she joined him in the shower; __almost__, but not quite. She'd said __**"Wait" **__just as he reached the point of no return. John had switched off the shower, then stepped out of the cubicle, onto the small white toweling mat that Cameron had thoughtfully placed on the bathroom floor before slipping in behind him to begin her precipitous massage. He finished drying himself and wrapped his towel around his waist; not that he felt self-conscious in front of Cameron anymore, it was merely because she had wrapped hers around her body and was busy knotting it under her left armpit. She selected a hand towel and began vigorously rubbing her scalp, moving down and through her locks, until she had done a complete sweep. She tossed her hair back to check the weight of water in it, then ran her right hand through it for confirmation; he guessed she would want to use the hairdryer: she was a stickler for personal grooming. John was watching her every move, looking for __something__. Was he making her u__ncomfortable? __**No**__. Anxious? __**Perhaps**__. He wanted Cameron to explain herself, but waited patiently for her to begin. She looked into his eyes, and unusually for her, spoke hesitatingly._

"_I'm sorry, I've never..." she trailed off, looking helpless. After what seemed an age, she added: "I didn't mean for this to happen."_

"_It's okay. We're good. There's no hurry," he said, trying to reassure her._

"_I didn't... I don't want to hurt you, you must believe that!"_

"_Yeah, I know."_

"_You do believe me, don't you?"_

_John smiled sympathetically. His ardor had waned, and with it came clarity of mind. "Of course. Some days, you do and say things literally; yet other times you seem so sophisticated, so street smart, I just thought it was what you wanted. I'm sorry if I misread the signals."_

"_It is what I want, some day. Just maybe not today."_

"_Really?"_

_Cameron nodded. "I love you, John. What more could I do to show my love for you?"_

"_I dunno. Thinking back on it, you've done plenty, so I don't need this... we don't need to do this."_

_Cameron smiled wistfully. "You said before that there's a difference between making love and having sex."_

_John agreed. "Uh-huh."_

"_We could have sex, I know what to do. We're programmed with sufficient information to make infiltration successful, but..."_

"_It wouldn't be making love?" John concluded._

_Cameron dropped her eyes, her voice falling to a level barely above a whisper. "No."_

_John swallowed, then inhaled some more air, forestalling the dread that had threatened to overwhelm him. His greatest fear was now real: he was in love with her, desperately, achingly so, and she loved him too, he knew it without a shadow of a doubt, but until she understood fully what it meant to her, they couldn't consummate that love._

_He lifted her chin and kissed her tenderly upon the lips. "It doesn't matter," he said._

"_No?"_

_She looked quizzically up at him, but he thought he detected some hope in her eyes. He smiled, a genuine, contented smile, while shaking his head._

"_Are you mad at me?" she asked, still not sure of her position._

"_Nope," he said, and he meant it. "I've got you, and right now, that's all that matters. Tomorrow, we get back to tackling Skynet, and you're gonna be with me every step of the way. What more do I need?" He lifted her into his arms, and carried her to his bed. They could at least share their time together without regret or shame, if not with the ultimate intimacy_.

So that was it. Maybe they'd work it out, or maybe this was as good as it would ever get. As he'd told Cameron the previous night, he could live with that. He'd also said they would get back to tackling Skynet today, but there was so much he still wanted to say, so many questions he wanted to ask. Now that he was comfortable with the idea of them being a real partnership, he wanted to explore it without the pressures of work or their regular schedule. Or, he admitted, being within the purview of Derek Reese. Not that he felt guilty or ashamed: no, those feelings were well and truly dead and buried. He was prepared to argue his corner with Derek until Judgment Day, or further if required, he just didn't want to yet. He thought that he deserved some extra time to enjoy simply being in love. Standing at the window, holding the woman he loved, had felt so right; could he be selfish and ask for a little more time?

_**# # # # # # # #**_

In a reversal of their usual roles, John stood watch at the window while Cameron perched on the bed getting dressed. She noted that he was now wearing the shirt she had so carefully discarded; it was somehow satisfying to her. She donned one of her usual black tee-shirts, but wasn't finished. She slowly placed her left foot in a coiled up sock, then just as carefully unrolled the gray ribbed cotton up her calf, then deftly expanded it just enough to pass over her knee without it touching, or stretching the sock too much. She eased it into position on her lower thigh, at the same time lifting her leg and pointing her toe out, getting it just so before starting on the other one. She had gotten half way when John spoke up. He'd been watching her from the corner of his eyes, pretending he wasn't interested, but she'd noticed his fascination with some of her rituals before and so deliberately elongated them. He tried to speak, but his mouth was a little dry, and yet not. He swallowed, then tried again.

"That is totally wrong."

"What is?" she replied without looking at him.

"What you're doing."

She finally turned her head towards him, and raised an eyebrow. "I'm doing it wrong? How so? Is this not the correct way to put on one's socks?"

"Well... yeah, of course, but I don't mean 'wrong' wrong, I mean 'naughty' wrong."

"Oh."

She turned her head away, focusing her attention back on her sock, but John caught the slight smirk that briefly passed over her lips.

"I shouldn't have said that, should I?" he said, screwing his eyes shut for a second as he pinched the bridge of his nose. When they opened again, Cameron had resumed pulling up her hosiery, but even more slowly than before. When she had drawn it as far as it would go, she stood up to make sure each sock was level with the other: the symmetry was pleasing to her, as was the effect it had on John.

"You're ogling again," she said.

"I think I'm allowed to now," John said as he quickly covered the ground between them.

"Did your mother give her permission?"

"Mom's not here right now."

He was right in front of her, their noses almost touching as he bent down and she looked up.

"No, no she's not."

"I've put ideas into your head, haven't I?"

"Maybe," Cameron acknowledged. The smirk returned, less fleeting than before.

John took a hold of her waist. "You really are evil; you know that, right?"

"It's in my nature," she replied, all deadpan.

John grinned. "So, you gonna go out like that, or are you gonna put on a dress or jeans or something?"

"I don't know," she said thoughtfully. "Maybe as is..."

"You'd get arrested," John claimed.

"Oh? What for?"

"Causing traffic accidents and heart attacks."

"That's what I'm built for," she said, smugly.

"There's easier ways to wipe out humans," John said scornfully.

"But not so much fun," she replied cheerfully.

"You're gonna get expelled from the Terminator Union, if you carry on like this."

"Oh," Cameron said, affecting a sad face. "Who'll have me now?"

"There's a vacancy with the Resistance."

"Oh? What's the pay and conditions like?"

"Lousy, but there are perks."

"Perks?" she said, tilting her head to one side coquettishly.

"Yeah. You get to be with me twenty-four/seven," John said grandly.

"You call that a perk? Seems more like a prison sentence."

"You'll get time off for good behavior," he offered.

Cameron ran her fingers round the collar of his shirt, setting it so that it was symmetrically gratifying, like she had with her socks. "You're not really selling this job to me. I think you need to try harder."

"Okay. How about over breakfast? There's a good diner just a block away."

"Are you paying?" Her hands held the edges of his shirt front, as she debated whether to button them closed over his new tee-shirt, but it could appear to an observer that she was threatening him. Closer examination of her features would prove that nothing could be further from her mind.

"Of course, I'm a gentleman," John said, as his hands drifted downwards to cup her buttocks.

"Hmm." Cameron skipped away from his clutches and sauntered over to where her own bag of clothes rested on the floor, leaning over from the waist to select something from within. Her sensible white panties were not remotely revealing, but as with the putting on of her socks, she was deliberately posing provocatively for him. Boundaries still needed to be explored, but now there was no fear of getting burnt, for either of them. She held up a pair of blue denim cut-offs for John's perusal. "What do you think?"

John stroked his chin and furrowed his brow, trying to affect an intellectual air. The memory of her ass cheeks framed in taut white cotton wasn't going to go away any time soon. "Mmm. Better on you than me," he said.

Cameron frowned. "You need to work on your jokes, if you want to be a comedian," she said, stepping into the shorts.

"Good thing I've got the day job to fall back on," he said amiably.

"The parcel depot?"

"Savior of mankind," he corrected.

"Oh, that," she said, shrugging indifferently. She threaded her favorite leather studded belt through the loops on the shorts, then selected some purple Converse hi-top sneakers to adorn her feet. Penultimately, she pulled on a gray cable-knit sweater that matched her hosiery, then shook her hair out, allowing it to trail down her back and settle loosely upon her shoulders. To complete her ensemble, she grabbed the canvas messenger bag that now held her Glock, car keys, small wallet and cell phone, as well as other less essential items. "I'm ready!" she declared.

John ostentatiously brandished his watch and cleared his throat. "Um, I'd just like to point out that when we first met, you didn't take this long to get ready," he said, though without malice.

Cameron linked her arm through John's. "See what you've done to me: I'm ruined!"

"Yeah, right..."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

John halted outside an old-fashioned, stainless steel railroad-style diner.

"Here we are!" he said enthusiastically.

"This looks like something for tourists," Cameron declared.

"We are tourists," John replied.

Cameron looked doubtful. "We're from Los Angeles, and we're in Los Angeles; how does that make us tourists?"

"I was born in some god-forsaken jungle south of the border, and you're from New Mexico. That makes us tourists," John asserted.

"Actually, I was built in California," Cameron stated for the record, but she noted silently and gladly that John was being suitably vague about the whereabouts of his birthplace.

"Where in California? L.A.?" John asked.

"No, north-east of here, at the site of the former McGuire Gunnery Range."

"That makes you a tourist, even discounting that you're from the future," John declared. "Now let's go inside, I'm real hungry." He took her hand, demonstrating both that he would brook no further argument, and that he was publicly claiming Cameron as his.

As they stepped inside, a homely-looking waitress approached. Cameron estimated her age to be about thirty, her threat level zero. She noted that her name tag identified her as _Donna_ and that her roots needed touching up.

"Hey, John! The usual? And is this..?" Donna inquired, arching an eyebrow as she flicked her head briefly in Cameron's direction.

John blushed slightly. "Um, yeah it is... Er, let me take a look at the menu; when I've made up my mind, I'll get back to you," he mumbled. "But, uh, a couple of coffees first, okay?"

"Sure, John," said the waitress_. _ She handed over two menus and departed, apparently bemused.

John looked at Cameron, who was gazing intently at him, with a raised eyebrow of her own. _"Explain all"_ she seemed to be saying. He fidgeted with the menus, trying to find something to do with his hands. Finally he pointed to a booth. Cameron deemed it a suitable choice, and so they sat facing one another. She manifestly still expected him to clarify the situation.

John cleared his throat. "Um, well, I might have asked her opinion on some matters pertaining," he said, as nonchalantly as he could.

"Pertaining to what?" she persisted, when he failed to continue.

John looked up as Donna returned with a couple of mugs, into which she poured some murky brown liquid, vaguely smelling of coffee. She retreated with a knowing look at John, which Cameron couldn't fail to miss.

"Pertaining to us," John said feebly. He hoisted his mug and took a slug, but immediately regretted it. Despite appearances, it was still too hot.

"You have been discussing our relationship with her?" Cameron said, glancing at the departing waitress.

"I might have," John said carefully, nursing his burnt mouth.

Cameron frowned. "That doesn't sound like good security."

"Give me some credit," John protested. "I didn't tell her that you're a killer robot from the future."

"You told that cop at Christmas," she pointed out.

"I did? I don't recall," John said, now looking intently at the menu.

"How convenient," Cameron said dryly. "Incidentally, you should avoid coffee: caffeine isn't good for your re-hydration."

"Now you tell me!" John said sourly.

"No one likes a nag, least of all you," she replied.

"Right... Anything else I should avoid, doctor?" he said grumpily.

"Fatty or spicy foods, and alcohol of course."

"Of course." John waved the menu at her. "Anything on here that's safe?"

Cameron noted his continuing caustic tone. "A banana or plain rice. If you're gonna drink that coffee, you should add some sugar; you're still lacking in that area."

"Oh?"

"I told you to have another glass of salts before we came out."

"I felt fine, didn't think I needed it."

"There's a difference between feeling fine and being fine."

"Is there?"

Cameron sighed. "Yes." She took his hands and looked earnestly at him. "You must learn to delegate certain decisions to those with greater knowledge or experience in those fields; you can't do everything by yourself. Besides, you have me now." She smiled warmly at him across the table.

Before John could reply, the waitress Donna reappeared. "Have you made up your mind?" she asked.

John looked directly at Cameron. "Yes. Yes, I have."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

Cameron popped another strawberry in her mouth, while John forked a last mouthful of banana into his. As directed by his companion, he chewed it into a pulp, before swallowing. A question that had been itching away at his consciousness for some time surfaced and refused to retreat. Girding himself, he took a deep breath, trying to make his question sound casual. Before he could speak however, Cameron had a question of her own.

"How did you get to be so friendly with that waitress, when you've been on your death bed for two days?"

"Huh?" John's mind immediately raced around searching for the right thing to say, caught off guard by his own intention to take the conversation in a totally different direction. "Um, well, I came in here early Thursday morning. I was hungry and it was the only place open. I asked her if she knew of a place that rented rooms."

"I see," Cameron said icily, folding her arms across her chest.

"No, not that," John said emphatically. "She told me about the motel, I went round and booked in."

"She probably gets some kickback for luring suckers in," Cameron said.

"Yeah, well..." John said, reluctant to get lured into her trap. "I didn't have any plans yet, so I came back for lunch and we got talking."

"I see."

"I had no intention of making a play for her, if that's what's bothering you. I just wanted some advice." John tried to make himself as open as possible, so that she wouldn't miss the honesty of his admission.

"Okay," Cameron said after a short but excruciating pause. She placed her last strawberry in her mouth, and smiled with satisfaction at her partner. When she had finished chewing it, she swallowed it, then licked her lips. "It's a shame you didn't come here for your dinner as well: you would have avoided the food poisoning."

He looked for an edge in her voice, but couldn't detect anything. "Um, yeah," he agreed, scratching the back of his head. She continued to study him, but the provocative look was gone from her face, so he assumed that the matter was closed. John decided that it was time to ask the question that he had been deflected from. "If we're being all so confessional now, what's the four-one-one on that kiss?"

"To which kiss do you refer?" she replied vapidly.

John snorted. "Don't be coy; you know exactly which one, or if you don't, you ain't half the cyborg we both know you are."

Cameron pursed her lips. She'd hoped the subject would never be raised, but John was too smart and inquisitive to forget or ignore it: the somewhat foolish, definitely reckless, lip-lock she'd sprung on him the previous Christmas Eve, after which she had followed up with an imitation of his own spiteful, about-turn behavior.

"I wanted to know what it felt like, kissing you; I thought you might be pleased, and you were, but when you reacted so strongly I thought I could get you back for all the rude things you'd said to me. Looking back, I realize that I was wrong to hurt you."

"No, I deserved it," John said, generously.

"But your reaction then suggested the opposite. I humiliated you in public, so when you later said that you loved me, I was momentarily surprised. Although you were intoxicated, I knew you were being truthful. I spent a long time trying to reconcile your attitude and your words with your true feelings. It would appear that many humans avoid saying what they truly mean. They live lonely lives as a consequence."

"You mean Future-Me?"

"Leadership is a lonely business."

"He said that?"

"You," she corrected gently.

He saw that her mouth was turning up slightly at the edges into the faintest of smiles, and her face seemed to glow. It was like she was proud of him, but didn't want to go overboard about it; like it was a real feeling, not something she had to exaggerate to make her meaning clear. "If I hadn't run off from the mall, what would have happened?" he said.

"We would have completed our shopping and gone home."

"And that's it?"

"It's the most likely outcome."

"And if you hadn't kissed me?"

"We would have completed our shopping and gone home."

"So, basically, we both screwed up?" John said.

"I think it was more my fault than yours. Our relationship was such that I felt able to attempt the kiss, but if I had just been more thoughtful, if I hadn't pushed you away and humiliated you, I think we would have saved ourselves a lot of arguments."

"You weren't to know. You didn't have the experience; you still don't." He waived away her protest. "I know your emulation is beyond compare, but I also know from last night, that is not your way with me, right?"

Cameron nodded in agreement.

They fell silent, as they both thought of the alternative life they might be leading if only they had done things differently. John soon dragged himself from his reverie however; his life was full of ifs, buts and maybes, and one more was no help. Mostly he'd rather live in the here and now, let the past and future take care of themselves. Some things in the immediate past needed clarifying though, if he was to make sense of his present.

"You came on pretty strong yesterday; I mean when you arrived at the motel. You didn't hold back on the criticism," John said.

"You're not still mad at me, are you? You said you weren't," Cameron accused.

"Me? No. I mean, I was, but not any longer. Why would I be?"

"You always have been before, when I've done something like that," she pointed out.

John accepted that he could hold a grudge. "Hmm, true. But not this time."

"Why?"

"I dunno. Maybe it's like there's nothing left to fight about." The silence that greeted his words made him reconsider them. "I don't mean that in a negative way, I meant I think we've put all of that crap behind us."

Cameron agreed, but before continuing chose her words carefully. "I think I wanted to shock you, while putting off what I really ought to say. Once before, you offered me the opportunity to be open about my ambitions for us, but I did not take it. This time I did, because I decided that honesty was best, regardless of the cost to me as a person."

"You see yourself as a person?"

"Yes. Why shouldn't I?"

"You're always telling me you're a cyborg, not human," John said.

"That doesn't preclude me from being a person though, does it?"

John pondered. "No, guess not."

Cameron frowned. "You guess?"

"Is there a time limit on me giving you a definitive answer?" John said cheekily.

"No. But some time before Judgment Day would be preferable."

"Ha-ha!" John laughed.

"That wasn't a joke," Cameron protested.

John sobered up. "Sorry." He made his face look as contrite as possible, much like he had done when his mother had caught him doing something wrong.

"Ha! I fooled you," Cameron said with a smirk.

John groaned. "Why me?" he asked, looking to the heavens.

Cameron followed his gaze. "Why what?" she asked, wondering what he might be seeing on the ceiling of the diner.

"Why are you so freaking complicated? Girls are complicated. But you... you're meant to be simple: you protect me, end of story." He sounded exasperated.

"I'm sorry, John," she said, casting her eyes down apologetically.

"Ah, forget it! I thought we were done with saying 'sorry' all the time?"

"We have to stop hurting each other first," Cameron said.

John sighed. "Yeah, that's kinda what I meant." There was a moment or two of uncomfortable silence before John rewound the conversation. "Why did you do that?" he asked.

"Do what?" Cameron asked, puzzled once again.

"Decide to be honest, regardless."

"I don't know. It just seemed like something I should do."

"What was the personal cost?"

"I could have lost you forever."

"And that's important to you?"

"Nothing is more important to me than your safety."

John took her hand and softly squeezed it. "But it's important to you?"

She looked him in the eye. "Yes, it's important."

John smiled. "Well, let's make sure you don't lose me then."

Cameron smiled back. "That would be satisfactory."

"Good," said John.

"Good," she echoed.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

As agreed beforehand, John settled the bill, leaving his habitually generous tip. Cameron knew that he did this because his mother had often worked as a waitress. She herself was no stranger to the life, but it didn't stop her feeling another one of those irrational moments of jealousy; it soon passed however. "What do you want to do now?" she asked, as they stepped out into the sunlight.

"Well, I guess we should start on hunting Skynet," he said reluctantly.

"Yes, we should," Cameron agreed, "but Future-You didn't always do what he should. We're on vacation, so let's do something fun."

John checked himself. "You're saying we should have fun? You?"

Cameron frowned at him. "Yes, me. We've paid for the room, we don't have to go back to work, let's chill out."

John shook his head in disbelief. "Now I've heard it all! A terminator on vacation!"

Cameron dragged him back in the direction of the Hotel California. "You might wanna shout that a bit louder: they didn't quite hear you in Van Nuys!"

John laughed. "If anyone round here knew what a terminator is, they sure as hell wouldn't believe you're one; I mean, dressed like that!"

"I'll take that as a compliment, but let's not put your theory to the test, okay?"

"Okay, honey," John said cheerfully.

It was Cameron's turn to check herself. _'Honey?' This would call for a 'squee' if I was a girl like Allison. Not that they squeed in 2027, but–_

"Are you okay?" John abruptly stopped walking, interrupting her train of thought.

"Um, yes," she replied.

"Uh-huh," John said. "You looked kinda someplace else..."

"Oh. I was just squeeing," she confessed.

"Uh-huh. Is that legal? In public, I mean," John said, arching an eyebrow.

Cameron pulled a face. "You have a totally dirty mind," she said, cuffing him lightly on the shoulder.

"Ow!" he cried, grabbing the spot where her blow landed. His face showed that he was in severe pain.

Cameron held him by the elbows, anxiety etched upon her face. "Are you okay? I didn't hit you that hard."

"My tattoo," he gasped.

"Oh no! I'm really sorry, John," she said, now extremely concerned.

John winked. "Fooled ya!" he said with a self-satisfied smile plastered over his face.

Cameron frowned. "Not funny," she huffed.

"I dunno; got you going for a minute there!"

"Let's go back to the room. I'll check the dressing and maybe you should take another dose of salts," Cameron said, her tone making it sound more like an order than a request.

"Yes, nurse," John replied.

Cameron frowned again momentarily. John leered at her. She rolled her eyes, then turned back to the motel, this time clamping her hand around his so that he couldn't escape, as she dragged him away like a naughty child.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

"What is the significance of the wolf?" she asked, as she completed her task by gently pressing down the edges of the fresh adhesive bandage. She set about clearing up the used cotton wool swabs, the previous covering and the disinfectant and ointment. The waste items she placed in a plastic bag for disposal, the other items she returned to her first aid kit, all the while ensuring that John knew she was listening attentively.

"Um, well, it's the 'lone wolf' thing," John replied, rolling his shoulder to test the flexibility of the covering. He glanced up at his 'nurse,' who once more was perplexed. "It's something I'd been thinking about for a long time; ever since Mom died, really. I thought I was always gonna be alone."

"And when you left me, you once more thought that?"

"Uh-huh," he confirmed.

"I still don't understand the wolf. They are pack animals, aren't they?"

"Yeah, mostly. But there's some that just go their own way."

"And that's how you see yourself?"

"Yeah, I guess. You've said it yourself, Cameron: in the future I'll be alone."

She looked sad, but tried to affect a smile of encouragement. "Maybe not." She reached out to cup his face. John's expression told her not to stop there and so she offered her lips for him to conquer, something he did with relish. Once more she was caught up in his orbit, unable to escape. Eventually though, he released her.

Cameron ran her right index finger over her lips before staring intently at it. "I like kissing," she declared in her matter-of-fact way.

John chuckled. "Well, that's good," he said. "Now, let's hit the road."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

As they promenaded around and through the sparse throngs of street performers and out-of-season tourists gracing the wooden boards of Santa Monica Pier, John noticed that Cameron was walking differently: she seemed to have a spring in her step. And there were other pointers: she was wearing small gold earrings and a bit more make-up than usual.

"You seem different," he said.

She looked at him and smiled. "I am different."

"Yeah, I know that," John agreed, smiling back, "but I meant different to, like, yesterday."

"Oh." She resumed looking ahead, now frowning slightly.

"You normally dress to blend in," John said, realizing she wasn't following his meaning.

Relief showed on her face as the frown disappeared. "I am blending in," she said.

"Yeah, but last time we were here you didn't wanna stand out. You know, your usual outfit: boots, jeans and leather jacket."

Cameron stopped dead in her tracks and scowled. "By _'usual'_ you mean boring."

"No, I mean your look. It's you: neat, efficient, practical."

"Right: boring."

John shook his head. "You're taking this totally the wrong way." He thought he'd managed to keep a note of exasperation from entering his voice. He was determined to try and make something of their relationship: something _other_ than conflict.

"You said that the last time we were here I stood out because I spent my time staring at people."

"Okay, yeah, I said that," John admitted, "but you're much slicker now." Cameron's expression turned to one of confusion. "I know you're still checking everyone out, you're just much more subtle about it."

"Oh. I hoped you wouldn't notice," she said, pouting.

"I think I know you pretty well by now," he said, smiling encouragingly. "So what, do you match people to your database?"

"Yes. I run a facial analysis to see if any are known terminators or if their dimensions match those of endoskeletons on record."

"Seems like a lot of work," John said.

Cameron shrugged momentarily before continuing, "Also, I analyze patterns among the images to determine if the same people stay within their groupings; any that appear to be following us while trying to blend in with disparate groups will demand further inquiry."

John was impressed. "You take our security pretty seriously."

"Nothing is more important than your safety, John." She'd said it earlier, but it was the basis of everything that she felt for John Connor, so she had no regret in repeating herself.

"Not even your happiness?" he asked. Cameron shook her head. "You can't take even one day off?"

She smiled ruefully and again shook her head. "But the job does have one perk," she claimed.

"Oh?" John said, picking up on her voice's increasingly upbeat tone. "And what would that be, exactly?"

She smiled warmly and put her arm through his, guiding them back on their way. "I get to be with you twenty-four/seven," she said.

John chuckled. "So, you taking up my job offer?"

"I'm still thinking about it," she answered. "Consider this a trial."

John laughed at her joke and drew her closer. "Let's take a photo, to commemorate the day," he said.

Cameron creased her brow slightly. "Does the day deserve such treatment?"

John smiled at her confusion. "Yeah, it's a special day for us; the best day ever. I wanna remember it. I don't have the rewind facilities you do," he said, tapping her head.

"Oh," she said, comprehension evident in her features. "It might be a risk, though. This is an easily identifiable location."

"Well, make sure there's only the sea and sky in the background then," John said.

"Okay," Cameron replied. She scouted about the pier, until she found a spot she was satisfied with. "Here will suffice," she said.

"Alright, get your game face on then," John advised, holding his cell phone out at arm's length.

"What is my game face?" Cameron asked, as John clicked the button.

He showed her the result. She looked mildly puzzled, while he was grinning. "Yup, that's one for the scrapbook," he decided.

"It's not very flattering," she opined.

"Not for you maybe, but you look soooo cute," he said, pinching her cheek affectionately.

She snatched the cell off him and activated the camera again. "I'll take this one," she declared.

"Fine," said John, wrapping his arms around her. He smiled at the small device she held out in front of them. The resultant image depicted two young people at ease with one another, happy to be together and apparently in love. "Better," he said.

"Much better," Cameron corrected.

"Send it to Charley and Michelle," John instructed.

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. They deserve to know I'm back, and that everything's good between us."

"Okay," Cameron acquiesced, pressing the necessary buttons to send the picture. A high-pitched beep confirmed the dispatch of the snap.

"Great!" John enthused.

"Should I forward it to Derek as well?" Cameron asked slyly. John shot her a cold look. She snapped the phone shut, returning it to him. "You've got no sense of humor," she claimed, whilst wearing her most innocent face.

"It's not too late for me to go to Canada," he grouched.

"Oh good! I've always wanted to see the snow," Cameron said, once more linking her arm through his.

"So, there really is no getting rid of you now?"

"Not a chance, mister!"

John smiled as he took her smaller hand in his. "Okay," he said. "Okay."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

Over at the L.A. County General Hospital, Charley Dixon was snatching a quick lunch break with his wife, Michelle. Their individual shift patterns never quite intersected enough for them to take the full hour together, but they enjoyed what moments they could find in their busy schedules. They'd been discussing the possibility of either taking in a movie at the week's end, or going bowling with the guys from the EMT station.

Michelle wiped a drop of mayonnaise from her husband's chin just as his cell phone chimed to announce the arrival of a picture message. He waited for the snap to download, then showed it to her.

"Aw, don't they look cute?" she said.

"Yeah, they do," Charley agreed. "The boy needs a shave though."

Michelle lightly smacked him on his knuckles. "You sound like his father telling him off."

The phone beeped again, this time heralding a text message. "It's from Johnny," he said.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. He says he's back and all's well. _'Sorry if I caused you both any trouble,'_" he quoted.

Michelle smiled pleasantly at Charley. "He's a good kid, really," she said.

Charley clicked back to the snap of Cameron and John. "Yeah," he agreed, beaming contentedly.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

"This food product is problematical," Cameron said, frowning slightly.

"It's just cotton candy. I'm sure if you think long enough about it, it won't be a match for the world's finest learning computer," John said, allowing himself just a trace of sarcasm.

Cameron shot him a disapproving look, but quickly returned her attention to the sticky confection. Attempting to take a bite without getting it all over her cheeks or entangled in her hair was the problem. As a terminator, she was reluctant to give up without finding an acceptable solution.

"Here's a clue: use your other hand," John said helpfully.

"I don't wish to get it sticky."

"Ah, just dump it in the trash," John said, pointing to a convenient receptacle.

Cameron frowned some more. "That would be a waste."

"We can afford it," John said. It was his standard answer whenever he decided that she was taking too long over a simple decision, but he thought he'd vary it this time. "And I don't think you need the sugar rush anyway."

Cameron looked directly at him. "No?"

"No. You're sweet enough already," he said, adopting a suitably syrupy voice and grinning like a loon.

Cameron returned his smile whilst dropping the troublesome object in the trash can.

"Thank you," she said, kissing his cheek.

"_No problemo_," John said, thinking how he'd never get away with such a cheesy remark with any of his previous conquests. _Conquests?_ He berated himself for lumping Cameron in with the assorted women that made up his previous relationships, successful or otherwise. If anything, she was the one who had conquered his heart. Unquestionably, she was nothing like anyone he had met before, and not just because she was a cyborg. She was a complex mix of naive and knowing, and that was just the start of it.

"What are you thinking about?" Cameron said, rubbing her thumb lightly across his face where her lips had been moments before. She was removing a slight trace of lip gloss to save him from embarrassment, but John felt only her tender touch.

He leaned into her hand, then covered it with his own. "I was just thinking that I've never met anyone quite like you."

Cameron's nose crinkled at the bridge, as she considered his remark. "Is that a good thing?"

"What do you think?" John replied, then smothered her answer with another long and passionate kiss.

He finally released her, allowing her to offer a reply. "I think it couldn't possibly get any better than this," she said.

Deep inside, she knew that was likely to be true; it gave her a feeling akin to something like the state she was in when John had left her, and that was not a good experience. She resolved not to let the doubts show. She would put on a happy face and make sure that they enjoyed the free time they had left, for the next day they would have to return to the life they were leading before; more likely they would have to pursue more vigorously the war against Skynet.

"Well, let's hope it does," John said. "But I won't tell anyone that you were defeated by something as simple as candy; wouldn't look good down at the Terminator Union, huh?"

Cameron pouted; John just laughed some more. He figured he could get a lot of mileage from that joke. She responded by steering him towards the parking lot and their waiting Jeep.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

They were stuck in traffic. John was idly wondering whether to open the window or stick with the Jeep's air-conditioning. He really wanted some clean fresh air, but he suspected that the exhaust fumes from the vehicles of their fellow prisoners on the multi-lane freeway would be somewhat less than pure. He reckoned that the late October air was worth the risk, so flicked the A/C button off and hit the switch that made his tinted window glide down into the recesses of its door. Warm air wafted in, invigorating him. Cameron liked the A/C set too low, he decided. Something else was playing on his mind, something equally trivial, but it was one of the nicer aspects about being with Cameron, that he had time for the mundane.

"If this doesn't let up, we're gonna miss _Big Bang Theory_," he grouched, glancing at his watch for the umpteenth time.

"Don't worry, I set the DVR to season pass when you left," Cameron said. "You can watch it when we get home."

John sat up straight. "You did?" Cameron nodded affirmatively. "Yeah!" John punched the air with excitement, which left her bemused.

"You didn't get that stimulated watching it before; has your absence elevated its charm in your memory?"

John laughed. "No, I'm just kinda pleased you would do that for me, and that you had faith I'd be back. It's kinda nice, you know? Shows how much you love me," he said. He took her right hand and drew it up to his lips, planting an old-fashioned, gentlemanly kiss upon it.

She smiled momentarily. "I'm not sure about faith, though I was almost ready to consider prayer: I had all but given up hope of ever seeing you again. A life without purpose beckoned," she said, her voice taking on a sad note.

John squeezed her hand, wrapping it between both of his. "You didn't give up totally, though; you made plans for the future."

"It was a little thing, but yes, programming the DVR to record the shows we watched together seemed like a sensible option."

"If I hadn't come back, would you've watched them?"

"No. It would remind me of what I was missing, through my own poor decision making."

"Oh." John studied her carefully. "You know it was as much my fault; maybe more so."

Cameron glanced his way, before having to attend to the road ahead, as the traffic moved on a few more yards. "No, it was my doing, but I'm glad you're back. Sitting and reviewing our life together, reliving all the bad times as well as the good, is no substitute for being with you, creating new memories," she said.

"Really?" John choked up briefly. "C'mere," he gestured. She leaned over to receive his kiss. It was short, but warm and fervent, and left her feeling once more infused with his love.

"I love you John Connor, but if you do leave me again, I'm gonna kill you," she declared, but there was a softness in her voice, belying the threat her words carried.

John chuckled. "You have my permission," he said. "Can we agree though, that we were both equally to blame for my leaving? And then never mention it again?"

Cameron agreed the deal with a nod and a faint smile.

The traffic jam eased further, allowing them to move along several hundred yards, before slowing almost to a halt, then speeding up again. They continued in this vein for some time, before coming to a complete stop once more. He knew it was irrational, but John didn't want to disturb Cameron's concentration while she navigated the ebbs and flows of the traffic jam. He was aware that she could multitask, sometimes spectacularly so, but there were times when it seemed proper to take the same approach as he would with any other person. There were times, however, when he needed to talk, and being stuck in the confines of the Jeep, or their previous vehicle, Cameron's faithful Ford truck, had often helped to force the situation. He smiled to himself, equating Detroit's products with a confessional.

"Do you want to ask me something?" Cameron said.

_Nothing gets by her_, John thought. He'd dealt with a couple of the more trivial issues taxing his brain, perhaps it was now time for something more challenging.

"I was curious about what you said this morning, and what you've said since. And _before_, too. I mean, we've been together a long time now; there's stuff I know about you that I never really wanted to acknowledge, and stuff I took for granted, but I've been trying to fit it all together."

"Okay," she said, intrigued. "Have you come to a conclusion?"

"Um, no," he admitted.

"Well, do you have any preliminary theories?"

"Yeah, a few," he said.

"Would you like to share one of them?"

"You wanna talk about your feelings?"

Cameron frowned. "Is this an appropriate place?"

"As good as any, I'd say; you can't run off and hide in the bathroom," John said.

Cameron's frown deepened. "Would I do that? Why would I do that?"

"Because you're afraid."

"I'm not afraid of anything," she asserted boldly.

"You're not afraid of guns, or terminators, or heights, or spiders, or anything trivial like that, but there most definitely are some things you're afraid of."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, and I bet you can name one of them. Your actions while I was gone can tell you that you're afraid of one thing at least."

"I'm afraid of losing you," she admitted.

"Yes," John concurred, "but there's something else."

"Please enlighten me," Cameron said.

"You're afraid of your feelings," he said.

"That's not what I said this morning," she replied. "I'm concerned, for want of a better word, that what I feel is not real."

"I don't think so; I think you're afraid that it _is_ real."

"And why would I think that?"

"Because you're a creature of logic: you need to make sense of everything, so it satisfies your system of rules if you can blame it on an aberration or flaw in your design, or on some damage you may have picked up. Anything but accept that you have evolved."

"I distinctly recall telling you when we first met, that I had changed over the years I had been in existence," Cameron huffed.

"Yeah, '_changed_,' like you've changed your clothes, or your hairstyle. I mean, _c'mon_ Cameron! We're having an argument – another argument! Doesn't that tell you something about yourself?"

"It tells me that you are getting angry, and will soon lose the concentration required to win this debate."

"Ha! No chance, baby! You're pissed, and I can tell. And earlier, you were happy."

"Well, it would be your fault, if I were annoyed at you," she said.

"Sure, it always is; but you gotta admit, I'm the reason you get so happy, right?" The tension had once more gone from John's voice, as he smugly completed his case for the prosecution.

"We may have to get a bigger car. I'm not sure this one will be able to contain your head for much longer, if it keeps swelling so," Cameron said, trying to sidetrack the conversation.

John laughed. "You saying I'm getting big-headed? I am the savior of mankind after all!"

"So you keep reminding me," she responded, but it would appear that John's good-humored mood was catching, as she felt the tension evaporate from the car. And fortuitously, the road cleared up ahead; they were soon traveling at a more normal freeway speed.

Cameron stole a swift peek over at John, who was tapping his fingers contentedly in time to the music on the radio. "You really do make loving you hard work," she muttered.

"Snap baby, snap," John responded, a sly but contended grin on his face.

She glanced his way again, just in time to catch him winking at her. She decided to concentrate fully on driving the Jeep, closing off all those doubts and whispers her processes had revealed as supposed answers to her problems. Despite what John had said, regardless of which path she followed, they all led her to one conclusion: that she was no longer reliable. And there was only one solution to the problem posed by an unreliable machine: termination. In the meantime, there was John's immediate health to think about.

"Are you hungry?" she asked.

"Starving."

"Give me your hand," she ordered.

"Uh, sure," John said, offering his left hand.

Cameron measured his pulse and quickly scanned the slight moisture on his palm.

"What's the diagnosis, doc?" he joked.

"You'll live," she answered. John prompted her for further clarification. "Your hydration level has reached an acceptable grade, and you are sweating normally."

"It's all that water you've been pumping me with the whole day."

"Yes. I think we can risk your health on eating out."

"Outstanding!"

_**# # # # # # # #**_

Later, back at the Hotel California, Cameron completed her sweep of room 211. "Do you wanna watch some TV?" she asked.

John was sitting on the edge of the bed, removing his boots. "Ah, can we pass on that? I'm really beat." He yawned and stretched. He'd not eaten as much as he regularly did, but his stomach was full enough to make him feel sleepy.

"Of course," Cameron said. She moved over to his side, quickly scanning him once again. The results were within acceptable parameters, but they had covered a lot of ground during the day, both literally on foot and figuratively in their relationship. He was simply tired. "You need your sleep."

"Yeah," he agreed through another yawn. "Sorry," he said.

She waved away his apology, but encouraged him into the bathroom to complete his ablutions for the day. For the first time, they shared a basin whilst brushing their teeth together. John kept glancing over at her reflection in the mirror, wondering why they had waited so long to acknowledge what had been staring them in the face the entire time.

He headed for bed, stripped off completely and slipped beneath the sheets. He adjusted his pillow and settled himself into the surprisingly comfortable bed. There was something missing though. "C'mere," he said, beckoning Cameron over. He pulled back the sheet on the vacant side.

In the bathroom she had planned what to do with her time once John had gone to sleep. She would begin by having a shower, before getting dressed in what John had dubbed her 'usual outfit,' ready for another night's guard duty. Despite everything, she hadn't expected that he would want to share his bed with her again. Having already removed her shoes, socks and shorts, her tee-shirt and bra quickly followed. Her sensation from before dawn about her nakedness, and John's many prior comments about modesty both resurfaced, so she grabbed and donned his red shirt before joining him under the covers.

As he had done the night before, he engulfed her with his arms, determined to keep her close in his most vulnerable hours. She began to accept that it wasn't just a matter of security for him. He clearly felt safer with her there, but it was becoming apparent that he was also more comfortable, which gave her a sense of optimism. His breathing quickly settled into a pattern that suggested sleep had claimed him, but she knew from the morning that deception was another weapon in his arsenal.

With her left hand she traced an irregular line along his chest, emulating something he was prone to do, though she guessed his was more of a subconscious act. "Why do you love me?" she whispered.

She felt his chest move as he drew in a deeper breath. So, he wasn't asleep after all.

"I don't know how or why I feel the way I do, I just know that I do," John said, running his hand through her hair.

"Do you wonder why?" Cameron replied.

John's hand continued its wandering, delineating her ear and jaw and then down her neck to rest on her shoulder. His touch told him one thing, but his brain knew the secret beneath the soft skin.

"You know I wasted... well, maybe it wasn't completely pointless, but I spent one hell of a long time thinking about you and me, cyborg and human; your ability to feel anything, to respond genuinely to me, and in the end I decided it didn't matter: that I'd take you as you are, whatever happens. And let's face it, some pretty big crap's gonna come our way, so why sit brooding about something as trivial as love?"

"You think love is trivial?"

John sighed. "Not really, but in the long term, of what life holds for me, I guess it pretty much is."

"It seems pretty important to me. It may be problematic, but I don't think I would have wanted to deprive myself of it."

John frowned with concentration. "Are you saying that you wouldn't change anything?"

"If I could change anything, I'd prefer to eliminate my mistakes, but it is unlikely that we would be in our current position, if we had not made those choices."

"We learn from our mistakes," he said.

"Yes, if we survive them."

"So, you're happy to experience love, and yet you still deny that yours may be real?"

"I'm not denying that it's real. I don't think I experience it the way you do, but there's no way to confirm or deny that. It just seems unlikely."

"Okay, but if it's just your way of interpreting your mission, how come there's all the rest? You enjoy strawberries, you get comfort from my presence, you show pride in some of the things you do, you get sad occasionally, annoyed often; you've shown signs of empathy for something other than me... Do I need to list anything more?"

"Is this another one of your theories?"

"Humor me."

"I don't know. We've said before it is likely due either to a flaw in my programming or damage to my chip, or possibly something else. I cannot isolate it, which is a problem for me."

"Okay, I can see that. But maybe you gotta embrace it, don't worry about it."

"_'Worry about it'_ suggests in itself an emotional response, which is the difficulty we are attempting to address. Sweeping it aside just puts off the day when the issue becomes not merely an intellectual challenge or interesting puzzle, but a serious problem; perhaps with fatal consequences."

"Okay, fair enough, but maybe you're over-thinking this?" John said glumly.

"Over-thinking is my specialty."

"And under-thinking mine?"

"I didn't say that," Cameron said. "Or imply it," she added.

"No, I know," he admitted.

"I have to consider all the permutations."

"Yeah, me too, but I filter them by what I consider are acceptable risks."

"As do I."

"Well, maybe I have a lower threshold of risk than you."

"That is quite possible; you take risks that I wouldn't, as did Future-John."

"Well, well. Seems like I'm not so immature as Derek likes to make out. If I'm like that in twenty years, maybe it's not so much about me, as about him, and the risks he's prepared to take. Maybe he doesn't have what it takes to win."

"He does, but he doesn't have what it takes to lead. Only you have that."

"Yeah?"

"Yes," she said unequivocally.

John chewed that over briefly, but put it to one side. The present might be fluid, but his future was set in stone; although decisions taken now could alter certain aspects of that future, all roads led to one destination.

He was wide awake, and fully alert. They had traded questions and answers all day, batting replies back and forth like tennis balls, and yet some had been lost in the margins, some whacked out of court. It was one thing to admit to your deep-seated feelings, to embrace them and put them out there for public view, however it was another to actually define them when you didn't know if you even had any at all. His heart wanted to follow his own advice, to continue to ignore what might be lurking deep within Cameron, but his head told him to keep digging away, to discover if it was fool's gold in there, or the real thing. He thought he could live with the answer whichever outcome was revealed, but like her, he needed a resolution. He leaned up to the wall above them, seeking out and finding the light switch. He wanted to shed some light on the situation, quite literally. There would be no shadows for her to hide in.

"What happened when we were in the shower?" he asked, pressing the switch.

Cameron remained silent, but it seemed to John that she was considering her answer carefully, rather than evading his question. He sought to ease her path.

"I know you said you've never done it before, and there's the whole _'love'_ thing, but why is it such a difficult choice? I mean, you guys just follow the most logical path, right?"

"Usually, but not always: we can be faulty."

"And you think you're faulty – you've said so, but are you really?"

"I don't know. I found processing your emotions at the time to be quite intense. Additionally, responding at that level seemed to be beyond my capabilities. I was overwhelmed."

"So, you think your systems can't cope with simulating to the same degree?"

"That is one possibility."

"Another is that you weren't trying to emulate my feelings, but that you were experiencing your own, and you couldn't handle that."

Cameron scowled at him. "Why do you say that?"

"You don't truly understand what's going on with you, the changes inside."

"No, I don't," Cameron admitted.

"So, it's a possibility at least."

"Yes, it's a possibility, but the depth of your emotion is so much more than I can offer you in return."

"Really? I doubt that."

"I don't feel like you do, it doesn't consume me the way it does you."

"Huh! I think you're wrong there," John scoffed.

"Oh?" Cameron tilted her head and regarded him thoughtfully, something he found to be perhaps her most endearing trait.

"You'd do anything for me, right?"

"Yes," she answered, without hesitation.

"Why?" He watched her carefully, her face minutely betraying her thought processes, her conflict. When he'd first met her she would have answered the question in a flash: because he is John Connor, plain and simple, nothing further needed to be added. But now, now she was different, and there were many reasons for it. He offered her an answer: "Because you love me?"

She looked him in the eye. "Yes."

"But that's not everything, is it?"

"No."

"I think that means you're not so different from me," John said.

"Maybe," Cameron relented.

"So maybe I won't overwhelm you with emotion?"

Cameron smiled. "Maybe," she repeated.

John grinned. "I'm only worth a maybe?"

"A definite maybe?"

"I dunno what that is, but if it's somehow better, I'll take it."

"It's all I got," she said, a wry smile flickering over her face.

John took her in his arms. "You pick up waaay too many bad things off me, you know that, right?"

She put her hands on his chest, as if to push him away, but offered only token resistance. "I'm always open to learning something new from you."

"Good or bad?" John asked, still smirking.

"Either. But right now, maybe the latter," Cameron said, echoing his smirk.

John pulled her closer once more, relishing her presence, her warmth and her scent. It was comfortable and it felt right.

Her muffled voice came up from his chest. "With all these theories of yours, maybe you'll work it out one day."

"I hope so. I really hope so," John said, then kissed the crown of her head. He flicked off the light; soon he was asleep, content that in his arms was the woman he loved.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

_**Los Angeles: Tuesday, October 23rd 2007.**_

John woke up alone in the bed. The moment of panic that fluttered through his stomach vanished as his brain unscrambled the clues his senses delivered to him. The sound of a hairdryer coming from the bathroom could only be that of his partner preparing herself for another day. Dawn had broken, but he couldn't detect the muffled rumble that came with commuter traffic, so figured it was somewhere between 7 and 8AM. He yawned and stretched while he pulled himself up into a sitting position. He felt the space next to him on the mattress; it still held some residual warmth from her presence.

He drew the sheet back and swung his feet onto the thinly-carpeted floor. "Cameron?" he called out, though the word was muffled by his mouth forming a yawn. The whirring stopped, the bathroom door opened, and there she stood.

John smiled. "'Morning."

Cameron returned his smile. "Good morning, John," she replied pleasantly, before walking over to him.

"What do you wanna do today?" he asked, looking up at her.

She seemed to him to be deep in thought, as her brow knitted in concentration. He was about to repeat the question when she straddled him, placing her knees on the bed either side of his hips, her forearms resting on his shoulders as her fingers started a dance through his hairline. Her head was positioned slightly above his, so that she enjoyed his usual perspective of her, looking down. She then dropped neatly onto his lap, looked him straight in the eye and completely without inflection declared, "You have an erection."

A second of surprise gave way to a need to laugh, but he stifled both responses, though not so much that she didn't detect them. She tilted her head. "You thought I wouldn't notice?" she asked.

Now he smiled. "Erm, no. I'm naked, and you... all you're wearing is..." He leaned into her chest and inhaled, then returned to her eye line, "your perfume, so I'd say that was stating the obvious."

"I see," Cameron said, again looking reflective. "So if I were to say that you desire me, that would be stating the obvious too?"

"Right now? Yeah," John confirmed.

"Does that make you uncomfortable?"

"No, not at all."

"Not so long ago, it would have."

"Yeah, but things are different now."

Cameron smiled. "Yes."

John's expression turned serious. "How does it make you feel, that I desire you?"

She thought about it, but not for long. "I like being wanted. It makes me happy."

"Yeah?"

"Yes," she confirmed.

"What else do you like?"

"I like kissing you."

"Yeah, you said that yesterday," he said. "I mean, it's nice and everything, but–"

"My mouth is very sensitive," Cameron interrupted. She licked her lips, perhaps to emphasize the point. "I expect the kiss to be the same every time, but it isn't. It's always different, which is interesting."

"Oh, just '_interesting?_'" John said, affecting seriousness, but she saw through his subterfuge. Her grip on his hair strengthened.

"Yes, it's interesting, because I like it, and I want to do it," she said, a hint of irritation creeping into her voice.

John was about to make one of his habitual flippant replies, but something told him that this was the moment: a time to be a man to the woman he loved. He kissed her. At first slow and delicate; then more insistent, more passionate; more demanding. And she responded, her whole body reacting to his touch. He drew back, holding her hips as she cradled his head, breathing deeply, trying to control the pounding of his heart as it threatened to burst from his chest, driven by his desire – or was it fueling it?

"That feeling of being overwhelmed?" he said, trying not gasp out his words.

"Yes?"

"I think that's what's meant to happen."

"Oh. That's good," she whispered, kissing him again.

They paused to take stock, looking intently at each other. The blood was pounding in John's ears. "Are you ready? Do you want this?" he asked, his voice cracking.

"Yes," she said, reaching down between them. She moved her hips slightly as she took hold of him, getting the angle just right; and then with a sigh, they were as one.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

John collapsed backwards on the bed, seemingly spent. Cameron used her newly discovered muscles to contain him, holding him until every last trace of his desire was gone and he slipped limply out of her. Her hands rested on his heaving chest, as she looked down on his flushed and sweaty face. He looked content, more so than she had ever seen, but she needed confirmation.

His eyes opened and he sensed immediately what she was thinking. He reached up to caress her cheek, then pushed some loose strands of hair behind her ear. "We made love," he declared.

"Yes," she agreed, smiling in agreement.

He grasped her shoulders and rolled her onto her back. It was his turn to straddle her. "You wanna go again?" he asked.

Cameron raised her eyebrows slightly. "You recovered quickly."

"What can I say? I'm young and healthy... relatively. And the power of recovery is strong in the young: enjoy it while you can."

Cameron screwed up her face. "Sometimes you talk too much," she said.

"Me? _Hmmf!_" John's protest was muffled by her lips locking on his, and her hand behind his head securing them there. He quickly took command of the situation though, and soon they had settled into a rhythm, slower than before but no less passionate. This time however there was to be no instant recovery, as John's recent bout of food poisoning took its toll on his stamina; or maybe he was a mere mortal after all. He crumpled on to her chest, holding her and whispering endearments in her ear, but he soon fell fast asleep. She let him remain like that for ten minutes before carefully extricating herself from his grasp and returning to the bathroom to cleanse herself.

She contemplated the morning's events, aware of their immense importance not just to themselves, although she questioned, _Why should it be anybody's business but our own?_ _No, that is unrealistic,_ she accepted. In the future she had faced hostility for being what she was, she would undoubtedly encounter it again. Knowledge of this intimacy could be dangerous for both of them.

The feeling that she had developed by being close to John, wherever it came from and whatever caused it, had progressed to include not just kissing but the physical act of love. She resolved to try not to analyze it, despite her nature seeming to need an answer to every conundrum. As she looked down on his recumbent form, she accepted that her need to protect him was not merely the function of a program, but something that had developed on its own. For the moment, that was good enough for her; _"Some things are best left unexplained,"_ John had once said. She settled back alongside him, drawing the sheets over them. He stirred momentarily, not sufficiently to fully awaken, just enough to encircle her in his protective arms. She snuggled up to his chest, feeling safe. As she listened to his heart pumping rhythmically, she knew that what she felt with him was true and honest and real.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

"We have to vacate the room by mid-day," Cameron said. She was reluctant to leave the comfort of John's embrace, but the mundane matters of their existence had to be attended to, and she took it upon herself to address them, as she had done ever since she had relocated them to Los Angeles. She had let him sleep on for a further hour though.

John opened his eyes slowly. He kissed the tip of her nose, something she found curious but still pleasing. "I don't wanna go," he said sleepily.

Cameron knew that she should prompt him to take up his responsibilities, to get him back on track to where he was supposed to be in the fight against Skynet; but she also wanted just one more day with him, with themselves as they were, beholden to no-one. "Me neither," she said.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

They had reluctantly made a move, Cameron gently dragging John into the bathroom to get washed and dressed. Without a definite plan for the day, she garbed herself in her usual outfit; it would cover most situations they might find themselves in, short of a sojourn on the beach. She tucked her shorts into her canvas bag in case of that eventuality.

They stopped at reception. Behind the desk was the same clerk that had separately attended to both of them.

"We've had a change of plan; can we keep the room?" John inquired, turning on the charm.

"Sure, how long do you want that for, sir?" the receptionist said, smiling widely.

"Can we keep it rolling?"

The clerk became more solemn. "I'd need to swipe a credit card for that."

"Mmm. I prefer cash, so let's say two more nights, is that okay?"

"Certainly. I'll do it at the same day rate as before, would that be acceptable?" Her voice had regained its bouncy, upbeat tone.

"Absolutely! Thanks," John said. "Pay the lady, honey," he told Cameron, who complied promptly.

They headed for the parking lot. As he pulled the door of the Jeep shut behind him, John looked at Cameron. "Did you squee again, back there?" he mocked. Cameron returned his gaze with her best withering look. "Okaaay!" John put his hands up in surrender. "Where you taking me today?"

"I thought I might do some girlie shopping. Spend all day trying on numerous different outfits in as many stores as I can."

"Oh?" John said warily.

"Yes. And we can finish up in Victoria's Secret. I'm sure you'll enjoy that," Cameron said straight-faced.

John smirked, rubbing his hands together gleefully. "Mmm, yeah! Chicks walking around in their scanties: what's not to like?"

Cameron frowned. "It doesn't work that way. You have to sit outside with all the other bored men; the changing rooms are not open to you."

"I'm not seeing an upside for me then," John said.

"That's the point."

"Oh, so you were trying to be funny? With that 'girlie shopping' scenario?"

"Yes."

"Hmm. Don't give up the day job _just_ yet," he advised.

"Hmm. I wouldn't expect a repeat of this morning's extra-curricular activities any time soon, if I was you," Cameron retorted.

John affected an air of outrage, clasping his hands around his face. "Oh, woe is me!" he wailed, before returning to his jocular mode. "You are one seriously touchy killer robot!"

Cameron looked blankly at him.

"But I wouldn't have it any other way!" he continued.

Cameron's mouth twitched slightly, before she allowed herself a small smile. "Let's go have some fun," she said, twisting the key in the ignition. The Jeep's engine fired first time, and soon they were joining the regular Anaheim traffic, heading to the House of Mouse.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

"So, how was it for you?" John asked, leaning back.

"Hmm. I would say 'interesting' covers it," Cameron replied, as she settled back in alongside him. His arm dropped reassuringly around her shoulders.

"Oh, just '_interesting?_' That's kinda disappointing."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I was kinda hoping for something like: 'outta this world' or, _well_, something else..."

"This is _me_ we're talking about, right?" Cameron said, turning to face John. He nodded in agreement as his arm fell to his side. "You should know by now that I don't do '_outta this world_.'"

"Yeah," he acknowledged glumly. "But a guy can hope, you know?"

"Don't worry," she continued. "It's only a roller-coaster ride. It's not like it's sex or anything."

"Yeah, but it's the freaking _Rock 'n' Roller Coaster_. I dunno if mere sex can compete with seeing L.A. upside down."

"Depends where you do it," Cameron replied.

John caught his breath in his throat; he swallowed a couple of times, waiting for some sign from her... and there it was: that hint of a smirk. He grinned back, but was saved from commenting when the waitress came with their order.

"There you go: meatloaf cooked like your mom used to make it," she said pleasantly.

"You didn't know my mom's cooking," John muttered. He received a dig in his ribs from Cameron for his trouble. "Whassup?" he said indignantly.

"Don't be rude about your mother, and eat your dinner," she said sternly. The mature waitress smiled kindly on the younger woman, raising her eyebrows slightly in John's direction. Cameron nodded and smiled briefly back. John considered making a protest, something he certainly would have done just a month before, but he found himself admiring Cameron's human characteristics. Non-verbal communication was a tricky thing to get right, but she seemed to have no problems. He squeezed her hand and smiled; she understood what that meant, for sure.

_**# # # # # # # #**_

"Are you alright?" Cameron asked. John had halted suddenly, clutching his stomach.

"Uh, yeah. Wish I hadn't had that meatloaf now."

Cameron raised one eyebrow. She was about to remind him that she had advised against that choice, but held her tongue. "Have some more water," she suggested, extracting a bottle from her canvas bag.

"Thanks," he said, taking it. He took a generous slug of the clear liquid. "That was _just_ like the food my mom used to make. Unfortunately," he added.

"Do you wanna go home, or back to the motel?" Cameron inquired.

John deliberated while they continued walking toward the exit. "Let's try to keep the pretense going, huh?"

Cameron frowned. "You mean that we're a couple?"

"No, no! There's no pretense there: I think we can safely say we're officially a couple now, right? No, I meant pretending that the world, all this, isn't gonna be gone in a few years."

"Oh," Cameron said. "The motel it is, then."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

Cameron switched off the Jeep's radio. John, who was curled up clutching his belly, at least as much as the car would allow, was about to berate her, when he realized that she was probably going to ask him something. She was just copying his behavior, for he would either lower the volume or click it off entirely when he needed to hold forth on whatever was troubling him.

"So, if we're now a couple '_officially_,' what were we before?"

"Why'd you wanna know? Does it matter?"

"Yes, it matters. I'm a student of human behavior," she said.

"Okay. Um, well, I'd say we were flirting before."

"Okay. Thank you for explaining."

"Yeah, the old '_will they, won't they?_'" John continued, oblivious to her using a phrase he had initially found cute, but had soon tired of due to its continued repetition, something he had informed her of in quite graphic terms.

"What?" Cameron had expected him to comment on her use of the phrase; she had employed it to test his current level of tolerance toward her, but hadn't anticipated him ignoring it completely. Now she was struggling to keep up with where his mind was wandering.

"It's an old cliché they use in TV shows, to keep people tuning in; wondering if the two leads will hook up."

"Right. And do they?"

"Hook up? No, never – or if they do, the show's canceled at the end of the season, if not sooner."

"I see."

"Good thing we're not like that, right?"

"Yes. People would have switched channels by the time you made your move."

"That's funny, Phillips."

"Thank you."

"I was being sarcastic."

"I think you used up your allowance of sarcasm some time ago. You're meant to be sucking up still."

"Hmm, sucking up; so no grovelling then? I'll take it," he said cheerfully.

"Uh-huh." She wagged a finger at him. "You do the sucking up first, then the grovelling."

"Right. Maybe we should go back to just flirting. I'm all for the simple life," John said wearily.

"Simple? You complicate everything."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

Cameron grabbed John's arm tightly above the elbow, then released her grip. There was a faraway look in her eyes as she sat next to him at the end of the motel's bed.

"Checking my vitals?" he inquired.

Cameron's attention snapped directly to him. Her mouth twitched, as it always did when he caught her out. "Is it that obvious?" she said.

John smiled affectionately. "Yeah, but only 'cause I know you so well."

She smiled back. "Lie back," she instructed.

John's eyebrows shot up comically. "How you've changed, Miss Phillips!" he said, in a passable attempt at the sort of English accent they'd heard in a Jane Austen movie.

"You've ruined me, Mister Connor!" she responded, fluttering her eyelashes. Naturally, her accent was perfect.

John grinned at her as she removed his boots and socks, then indicated for him to undo his jeans. She tugged on the denim legs, pulling them off in one movement. Having carefully folded them, she placed the jeans on a chair then returned to the foot of the bed, where she grasped one of his bare ankles. She proceeded to take his pulse from one of four points available on his right foot.

"If you're gonna tickle me, I don't mind," John said. "How am I doing, anyway?"

Cameron finished her task and then did a swift comparison to the cumulative readings she had gathered over the eleven months that she had known John. He had an enviable tolerance for pain and considerable endurance too, despite his often vocal whinging; usually he recovered quickly from injury, which made his collapse from a minor bout of food poisoning somewhat baffling to her. Maybe he was feeling suicidal? Or perhaps subconsciously he was seeking a way to ask for her help without loss of face? The latter seemed doubtful, though; she had found him in a situation he would not like to be reminded of in a hurry, but there was a saying: 'the lesser of two evils.' Possibly, he had been able to put up with anything but facing up to his true feelings for her?

Perhaps John had allowed himself to get so close to death knowing not only that he could be saved and that he had the strength to recover, but also that it put him in the position where he could acknowledge his hitherto hidden love. _Perhaps_. No wonder he had virtually torn himself apart over their relationship. _That's all over now though_, she hoped. It would not do for her to cause him conflict: it would deflect him away from what he must do.

She concluded that she knew little of his subconscious; any actions of his that she found unfathomable she ascribed to it. John often seemed to say one thing but do another, an act which should have been comprehensible to her terminator systems, but it seemed to be dissimilar to when she lied. Perhaps he too deemed it necessary for the mission? If he truly was suicidal though, that was a matter of the utmost concern. In her study of the subject she had discovered that many made failed attempts before being successful, as a way of attracting attention to their plight.

"You're much better," she said, "but not quite at one hundred percent efficiency."

John laughed at her terminology, then stood up and pulled her into his arms. _Is 'terminology' the study of terminator verbiage?_ he wondered idly while gazing into her eyes, then shook himself mentally back to the matter at hand.

"So, what does Nurse Cameron suggest I do to get back to my best?"

She gently pushed him back onto the bed. "Nurse Cameron recommends bed rest for the patient, and plenty of it."

"But that's boring," John moaned. "Unless you were to join me?" he added expectantly.

"I don't think you're up to that. Perhaps you could read a book or watch TV," Cameron suggested.

"Yaaawn..." John said, stretching his arms and theatrically opening his mouth as wide as he could.

In response, Cameron rolled her eyes and sighed dramatically, something she had perfected from close observation of the man in front of her. "Then maybe you could tell me a story?" she asked, sitting down beside him again.

John cocked his head: he was instantly sober, his curiosity piqued. "What kinda story?"

"About your younger days."

"Thought you'd heard 'em all from Future-Me?"

"I don't know. I'd still like to hear them from you."

"Um, okay. Well, once upon a time, there was this little boy called John..."

_**# # # # # # # #**_

John woke up. It was dark, but his eyes quickly adjusted to the conditions. Once again he was alone in the bed and, as had happened so many times before, Cameron was standing at the window on sentry duty. He felt a flicker of irritation that she would give up their new-found and hard-fought for relationship status to return to mere observation; that she would abandon his bed so readily. She didn't move as he joined her. The blue-white light of the moon above mixed with the assortment of neon lights below to cast an unusual pallor on her delicate features.

"Did you know that the boundary between the moon's dark and light sides is called the terminator?" he said.

"Yes," she replied.

"Oh. Guess it's not so easy to surprise you, is it?" he said, disappointed.

Cameron turned to face him, but said nothing.

"Why so sad?" John asked.

"Pardon?"

"You look sad, upset about something."

"Oh. I was thinking about Monday."

"You've never been that bothered about going back to work before, unlike me."

"It's not that. We will have to return to our old life. All this will be gone. Just a memory."

"Will it?" John said. "Why? We've both gone through a hell of a lot just to get here, so I don't see why we should give it all up."

"Do you mean that?" Cameron said. John had probed her relentlessly for confirmation of her love, seeking to identify its authenticity, but all he had offered in return about his was a simple _"I don't know why, but I do."_ While she had known for some time that he loved her, she now needed reassurance that it wasn't just a word or feeling, but their life.

"Yes. Why wouldn't I?"

"I thought you'd want to return to the status quo. It would be more convenient for you."

"Would it? I don't think so."

"What about Derek Reese?"

"Screw him. He's expressed his opinions, and I respect that, but they're his, not mine. I make my own decisions, and I live with them. I can't change everything about my future, but some things I can." John paused to let her reflect on his words, before continuing no less profoundly, "I have so few choices, but right here, right now, I choose you, Cameron Phillips; I choose you."

Cameron smiled as she stepped into his loving embrace. "And I choose you, John Connor. Forever."

_**# # # # # # # #**_


End file.
